THE  LIFE  OF  JEAN  HENRI  FABRE 


BOOKS  BY  J.   HENRI   FABRE 


THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIDER 
THE  LIFE  OF  THE  FLY 

THE   MASON-BEES 
BRAMBLE-BEES  AND  OTHERS 

THE    HUNTING    WASPS 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  CATERPILLAR 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  GRASSHOPPER 

THE  SACRED  BEETLE  AND   OTHERS 

THE   MASON-WASPS 

THE  GLOW-WORM  AND  OTHER 
BEETLES 

MORE   HUNTING  WASPS 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  WEEVIL 

INSECT  ADVENTURES 


THE    LIFE   OF 

JEAN  HENRI  FABRE 

THE  ENTOMOLOGIST 
1823-1910 


BY  THE  ABBE 

AUGUSTIN    FABRE 


TRANSLATED  BY 
BERNARD  MIALL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT  1921 
BY  DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY.  INC. 


PRINTED   IN  TH«   U     S    A    BY 


TO  MY  PARENTS 

IN    TOKEN   OF   GRATITUDE   AND   ADMIRATION 

FOR   THE   LABOURS   AND   THE  EXAMPLE 

OF  THEIR    LIVES 


NOTE  BY  TRANSLATOR 

THOSE  who  wish  to  become  more  fully  ac- 
quainted with  Jean-Henri  Fabre's  delightful 
Souvenirs  Entomologiques  will  find  them, 
arranged  in  a  different  order,  in  the  admira- 
ble series  of  translations  from  the  pen  of 
Mr.  Teixeira  de  Mattos,  published  by 
Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company,  New 
York;  a  series  which  will,  before  long,  be 
complete  and  contain  the  whole  of  the  ten 
volumes  of  Souvenirs.  Other  translations 
are  The  Life  and  Love  of  the  Insect,  trans- 
lated by  Mr.  Teixeira  de  Mattos ;  Social  Life 
in  the  Insect  World,  translated  by  myself; 
Wonders  of  Instinct,  translated  by  Mr. 
Teixeira  and  myself;  and  Fabre,  Poet  of 
Science  (another  biography),  by  Dr.  G.  V. 
Legros,  translated  by  myself. 

Post-war  conditions  have  made  it  neces- 
sary somewhat  to  abridge  the  author's  text, 
which  fills  two  volumes.  If,  however,  as  I 
hope,  these  pages  send  the  reader  to  my 
friend  Mr.  Teixeira's  delightful  versions  of 
the  Souvenirs,  their  principal  aim  will  be 
fulfilled. 

BERNARD  MIALL. 

1921. 

vii 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

I  WAS  eighteen  years  old;  I  was  dreaming 
of  diplomas,  of  a  doctor's  degree,  of  a 
brilliant  university  career.  To  encourage 
me  and  incite  me  to  emulation,  one  of  my 
uncles,  rather  more  well-informed  than  those 
about  him,  addressed  me  much  as  follows: 

"  Put  your  back  into  it,  my  boy !  Go 
ahead;  follow  the  footsteps  of  your  fellow- 
countryman  and  kinsman,  Henri  Fabre  of 
Malaval,  who  has  done  what  you  want  to 
do,  and  has  become  an  eminent  professor 
and  a  learned  writer." 

It  is  hardly  credible,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  I  had  heard  any  one  mention  this  fa- 
mous namesake  of  mine,  whose  family,  nev- 
ertheless, used  to  live  on  the  opposite  slope 
of  the  puech  against  which  my  tiny  native 
mas  was  built. 

His  remark  was  not  unheeded,  and  the 
name  then  engraved  upon  my  memory  has 
never  been  erased  from  it. 

A  few  years  later,  having  secured  my  doc- 
tor's degree,  I  was  teaching  philosophy,  not 
in  the  University,  but  in  the  Grand  Semi- 
naire  *  of  Lyons.  The  problem  of  instinct, 
which  enters  into  the  province  of  psychology, 
led  me  to  consult  the  works  of  J.  H.  Fabre, 

1  The  higher  clerical  seminary. — B.  M. 

ix 


Author's  Preface 

which  were  recommended  to  me  by  the  pro- 
fessor of  Science.  My  worthy  colleague  re- 
garded the  author  of  the  Souvenirs  Ento- 
mologiques  with  a  sort  of  worship,  and  it 
was  with  positive  delight  that  he  used  to 
read  aloud  to  me  the  finest  passages  of  those 
masterly  "  Essays  upon  the  Instincts  and 
Habits  of  Insects." 

A  little  later  1  chanced,  in  the  course  of 
my  reading,  on  the  Revue  Scientifique  de 
Bruxelles,  which  contained  abundant  extracts 
from  the  sixth  volume  of  the  Souvenirs,  in 
which  the  author  becomes  confidential,  and 
tells  us,  in  the  most  delightful  fashion,  of 
his  earliest  childhood  in  the  home  of  his 
grandparents  "  who  tilled  a  poor  holding  on 
the  cold  granite  backbone  of  the  Rouergue 
tableland."  Hullo!  I  said  to  myself:  so  the 
prince  of  entomologists  is  a  child  of  the 
Rouergue!  What  a  discovery! 

For  a  long  time  I  thought  of  publishing, 
in  the  local  press,  a  short  biography  of  Fabre 
with  a  few  extracts  from  his  writings.  I  was 
only  waiting  an  opportunity  and  a  little 
leisure. 

This  leisure  I  had  not  yet  found,  when 
the  opportunity  offered  itself  in  a  decisive 
and  urgent  fashion,  in  the  scientific  jubilee  of 
the  great  naturalist,  which  was  celebrated 


Author's  Preface 

at  Serignan  on  April  3,  1910.  When  all 
Provence  was  agog  to  celebrate  the  great 
man,  when  from  all  parts  of  France  and  from 
beyond  her  frontiers  evidences  of  sympathy 
and  admiration  were  pouring  in,  was  it  not 
only  fitting  that  a  voice  should  be  upraised 
from  the  heart  of  Aveyron,  and,  above  all, 
from  that  corner  of  Aveyron  in  which  he  first 
saw  the  light  of  day;  if  only  to  echo  so  many 
other  voices,  and  to  restore  to  his  native 
countryside  this  unrivalled  son  of  the  Rou- 
ergue  who  had  perhaps  too  readily  been  natu- 
ralised a  Provencal?  Moreover,  in  these 
times  of  overweening  atheism,  when  so  many 
pseudo-scientists  are  striving  to  persuade  the 
ignorant  that  science  is  learning  to  dispense 
with  God,  would  it  not  be  a  most  timely  thing 
to  reveal,  to  the  eyes  of  all,  a  scientist  of  un- 
doubted genius  who  finds  in  science  fresh 
arguments  for  belief,  and  manifold  occasions 
for  affirming  his  faith  in  the  God  who  has 
created  and  rules  the  world? 

And  that  was  the  origin  of  this  book,  the 
genesis  of  which  will  explain  its  character. 
Written  especially  for  local  readers,  and  con- 
sisting entirely  of  articles  which  appeared  in 
the  Journal  d' Aveyron,  it  is  fitting  that  it 
should  piously  gather  up  the  most  trivial  lo- 
cal reminiscences  of  J.  H.  Fabre,  and  that  it 
xi 


Author's  Preface 

should  be  full  of  allusions  to  the  men  and 
the  things  of  Aveyron.  Written  solely  to  call 
attention  to  the  life  and  labours  of  Fabre, 
the  writer  seeks  to  co-ordinate  in  a  single 
book  the  biographical  data  scattered  through- 
out the  ten  volumes  and  four  thousand  pages 
of  the  Souvenirs. 

The  reader  must  not  take  exception  to  the 
all  but  invariable  praise  of  their  author  nor 
to  that  spirit  of  enthusiasm  which  he  will 
perhaps  detect  behind  the  pages  of  this  vol- 
ume. This  is  not  to  say  that  everything  in 
the  life  and  work  of  our  hero  is  equally  per- 
fect and  worthy  of  admiration.  Whether 
knowledge  or  virtue  be  in  question  human 
activity  must  always  fall  short  somewhere, 
must  always  in  some  degree  be  defective. 
Omnis  consummationis  vidi  finem,  said  the 
Psalmist.  But  apart  from  the  fact  that  it 
is  not  yet  time,  perhaps,  to  form  a  final  judg- 
ment, the  reader,  I  trust,  will  remember  that 
this  book  comes  to  him  with  an  echo  of  the 
jubilee  celebrations  of  Serignan,  and  the  hom- 
age, still  touched  with  enthusiasm,  of  a  son 
of  Aveyron  and  the  Vezins  countryside  to 
the  most  illustrious  of  his  fellow-country- 
men. 


LA  GRIFFOULETTE,  near  VEZINS, 
August  28,  1910. 

xii 


CONTENTS 

CHAFTB. 

I      THE  SERIGNAN  JUBILEE  .          .          I 
II      THE  URCHIN  OF  MALAVEL         .       IO 

III  THE  SCHOOLBOY:  SAINT-LEONS     24 

IV  THE  SCHOOLBOY:  SAINT-LEONS    39 

V      AT  THE  COLLEGE  OF  RODEZ      .       65 
VI      THE     PUPIL     TEACHER:     AVI- 
GNON   (1841-43)       (  ;.          •       74 

VII      THE  SCHOOLMASTER:  CARPEN- 

TRAS      ...          .          -87 

VIII      THE  SCHOOLMASTER:  CARPEN- 

TRAS   (continued)         .        .      99 

IX      THE  PROFESSOR :  AJACCO  .     1 1 8 

X      THE       PROFESSOR:       AVIGNON 

(1852-1870)          .          .          .128 

XI      THE       PROFESSOR:       AVIGNON 

(continued)         ..        .        .143 

XII      THE       PROFESSOR:       AVIGNON 

(continued)        •  .        .         .166 

XIII      RETIREMENT:  ORANGE      .          .     199 

xiii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAG1 

XIV      THE      HERMIT      OF      SERIGNAN 

(1879-1910)  .  .  .     209 

XV      THE      HERMIT      OF      SERIGNAN 

(continued)          .        .        .    223 

XVI      THE      HERMIT     OF      SERIGNAN 

(continued)  .        .         .232 

XVII      THE  COLLABORATORS         .  .253 

XVIII     THE  COLLABORATORS   (contin- 
ued)       274 

XIX     FABRE'S  WRITINGS  .        .       .   293 
XX     FABRE'S  WRITINGS  (continued)   324 

XXI       A  GREAT  PREPARATION    .  -358 

XXII      THE     LAST     HEIGHTS      (1910- 

• 366 


XIV 


THE  LIFE  OF  JEAN  HENRI  FABRE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   SERIGNAN   JUBILEE 

TN  a  few  days'  time  x  naturalists,  poets,  and 
•^  philosophers  will  repair  in  company  to 
Serignan,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Orange. 
What  is  calling  them  from  every  point  of  the 
intellectual  horizon,  from  the  most  distant 
cities  and  capitals,  to  a  little  Provencal  vil- 
lage? Moussu  Fabre  f  they  would  tell  you 
yonder,  in  a  tone  of  respectful  sympathy. 

But  who  is  the  Moussu  Fabre  thus  cher- 
ished by  the  simplest  as  well  as  by  the  most 
cultivated  minds?  He  is  a  sturdy  old  man 
of  all  but  ninety  years,  who  has  spent  almost 
the  whole  of  his  life  in  the  company  of 
Wasps,  Bees,  Gnats,  Beetles,  Spiders,  and 
Ants,  and  has  described  the  doings  of  these 
tiny  creatures  in  a  most  wonderful  fashion 
in  ten  large  volumes  entitled  Souvenirs  En- 
tomologiques  or  Etudes  sur  I'Instmct  et  les 
Mceurs  des  Insectes? 

1  The   great   entomologist's   jubilee   was   celebrated   on 
the  April  3,  1910. — AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

2  Paris,    Delagrave.      The    Souvenirs,    translated    by 
Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos,  are  in  course  of  publica- 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

One  might  say  of  this  achievement  what 
the  author  of  Lettres  Persanes  said  of  his 
book:  Proles  sine  matre.  It  is  a  child  with- 
out a  mother.  It  is,  in  short,  unprecedented.1 
It  has  not  its  fellow,  either  in  the  Machal  of 
Solomon,  or  the  apologues  of  the  old  fabu- 
lists, or  the  treatises  on  natural  history  writ- 
ten by  our  modern  scientists.  The  fabulists 
look  to  find  man  in  the  animal,  which  for 
them  is  little  more  than  a  pretext  for  com- 
parisons and  moral  narratives,  and  the  sci- 
entists commonly  confine  their  curiosity  to 
the  dissection  of  the  insect's  organs,  the  anal- 
ysis of  its  functions,  and  the  classification  of 
species.  We  might  even  say  that  the  insect 
is  the  least  of  their  cares,  for,  like  Solomon, 

tion  by  Messrs.  Hodder  and  Stoughton  in  England  and 
Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  and  Co.  in  the  United  States.  The 
arrangement  of  the  essays  has  been  altered  in  the  Eng- 
lish series.  See  also  The  Life  and  Love  of  the  Insect, 
translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos  (A.  and  C. 
Black),  Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World,  translated  by 
Bernard  Miall  (T.  Fisher  Unwin)^and  Wonders  of  In- 
stinct, translated  by  Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos  and 
Bernard  Miall  (T.  Fisher  Unwin).— B.  M. 

1  It  must  in  justice  be  admitted  that  Fabre  had  certain 
precursors,  among  whom  mention  must  be  made  of  the 
famous  Reaumur  and  Leon  Dufour,  a  physician  who 
lived  in  the  Landes  (died  1865),  and  who  was  the  occa- 
sion and  the  subject  of  his  first  entomological  publica- 
tion. This  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  his  great  work 
is  not  only  absolutely  original,  but  an  achievement  sui 
generis  which  cannot  be  compared  with  the  mere 
sketches  of  his  predecessors. 
2 


The  Serignan  Jubilee 

they  delight  in  holding  forth  upon  all  the 
creatures  upon  the  earth  or  in  the  heavens 
above,  and  all  the  plants  "  from  the  cedar 
tree  that  is  in  Lebanon  even  unto  the  hyssop 
that  springeth  out  of  the  wall  "  (i  Kings  iv: 

32-33)- 

Fabre,  on  the  contrary,  has  eyes  only  for 

the  insect.  He  observes  it  by  and  for  itself, 
in  the  most  trivial  manifestations  of  its  life: 
the  living,  active  insect,  with  its  labours  and 
its  habits,  is  the  thing  that  interests  him 
before  all  else,  guiding  his  investigation  of 
the  infinite  host  of  these  tiny  lives,  which 
claim  his  attention  on  every  hand;  and  in  this 
world  of  insects  wealth  of  artifice  and  capaci- 
ties of  the  mental  order  seem  to  be  in  an 
inverse  ratio  to  beauty  of  form  and  brilliance 
of  colour.  For  this  reason  Fabre  learns  to 
disdain  the  magnificent  Butterfly,  applying 
himself  by  preference  to  the  modest  Fly: 
the  two-winged  Flies,  which  are  relatives  of 
our  common  House-fly,  or  the  four-winged 
Flies,  the  numerous  and  infinitely  various 
cousins  of  the  Wasps  and  Bees;  the  Spiders, 
ugly  indeed,  but  such  skilful  spinners,  and 
even  the  Dung-beetles  and  Scarabaeidae  of 
every  species,  those  wonderful  agents  of  ter- 
restrial purification. 

In  this  singular  world,  which  affords  him 
3 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fab  re 

the  society  which  he  prefers,  he  has  gath- 
ered an  ample  harvest  of  unexpected  facts 
and  highly  perplexing  actions  on  the  part  of 
these  little  so-called  inferior  animals.  No 
one  has  excelled  him  in  detecting  their  slight- 
est movements,  and  in  surprising  all  the  se- 
crets of  their  lives.  Darwin  declared,  and 
many  others  have  repeated  his  words,  that 
Fabre  was  "  an  incomparable  observer." 
The  verdict  is  all  the  more  significant  in  that 
the  French  entomologist  did  not  scruple  to 
oppose  his  observations  to  the  theories  of  the 
famous  English  naturalist. 

Not  only  in  the  certainty  and  the  detailed 
nature  of  his  facts,  but  also  in  the  colour 
and  reality  of  his  descriptions  is  his  mastery 
revealed.  In  him  the  naturalist  is  redupli- 
cated by  a  man  of  letters  and  a  poet,  who 
"  understands  how  to  cast  over  the  naked 
truth  the  magic  mantle  of  his  picturesque 
language,"  x  making  each  of  his  humble  pro- 
tagonists live  again  before  our  eyes,  each 
with  its  characteristic  achievements.  So 
striking  is  this  power  of  his  that  Victor  Hugo 
described  him  as  "  the  insects'  Homer," 
while  one  of  the  most  accomplished  of  our 


1  Souvenirs,  Series  vi.,  p.  65,  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap. 
vi.,  "My  Schooling."  This  is  Fabrc's  verdict  upon  an- 
other naturalist,  Moquin-Tandon. 

4 


The  Serignan  Jubilee 

scientists,  Mr.  Edmond  Perrier,  Director  of 
the  Museum  of  Natural  History,  not  content 
with  saluting  him  as  "  one  of  the  princes  of 
natural  history,"  speaks  of  his  literary  work 
in  the  following  terms : 

The  ten  volumes  of  his  Souvenirs  Entomologiques 
will  remain  one  of  the  most  intensely  interesting 
works  which  have  ever  been  written  concerning 
the  habits  of  insects,  and  also  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  records  of  the  psychology  of  a  great 
observer  of  the  latter  part  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. In  them  the  author  depicts  to  the  life  not 
only  the  habits  and  the  instincts  of  the  insects; 
he  gives  us  a  full-length  portrait  of  himself.  He 
makes  us  share  his  busy  life,  amid  the  subjects  of 
observation  which  incessantly  claim  his  attention. 
The  world  of  insects  hums  and  buzzes  about  him, 
obsesses  him,  calling  his  attention  from  all  direc- 
tions, exciting  his  curiosity;  he  does  not  know 
which  way  to  turn.  Overwhelmed  by  the  innum- 
erable winged  army  of  the  drinkers  of  nectar  who, 
on  the  fine  summer  days,  invade  his  field  of  obser- 
vation, he  calls  to  his  aid  his  whole  household:  his 
daughters,  Claire,  Aglae,  and  Anna,  his  son  Paul, 
his  workmen,  and  above  all  his  man-servant  Favier, 
an  old  countryman  who  has  spent  his  life  in  the 
barracks  of  the  French  colonies,  a  man  of  a  thou- 
sand expedients,  who  watches  his  master  with  an 
incredulous  yet  admiring  eye,  listening  to  him  but 
refusing  to  be  convinced,  and  shocking  him  by 
5 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  assertion,  which  nothing  will  induce  him  to 
retract,  that  the  bat  is  a  rat  which  has  grown 
wings,  the  slug  an  old  snail  which  has  lost  its 
shell,  the  night-jar  a  toad  with  a  passion  for  milk, 
which  has  sprouted  feathers  the  better  to  suck  the 
goats'  udders  at  night,  and  so  forth.  The  cats  and 
the  dog  join  the  company  at  times,  and  one  al- 
most regrets  that  one  is  not  within  reach  of  the 
sturdy  old  man,  so  that  one  might  respond  to  his 
call. 

See  him  lying  on  the  sand  where  everything  is 
grilling  in  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun,  watching 
some  wasp  that  is  digging  its  burrow,  noting  its  least 
movement,  trying  to  divine  its  intentions,  to  make 
it  confess  the  secret  of  its  actions,  following  the 
labours  of  the  innumerable  Scarabaei  that  clean  the 
surface  of  the  soil  of  all  that  might  defile  it — 
the  droppings  of  large  animals,  the  decomposing 
bodies  of  small  birds,  moles,  or  water-rats;  putting 
unexpected  difficulties  in  their  way,  slily  giving 
these  tiny  life-companions  of  his  problems  of  his 
own  devising  to  solve.1 

That  is  well-expressed,  and  it  gives  us  a 
fairly  correct  idea  of  the  vital  and  poetic 
charm  of  the  Souvenirs. 

The  same  writer  asks,  speaking  of  the  well- 
defined  tasks  performed  by  all  these  little 
creatures  beloved  of  the  worthy  biologist  of 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  pp.  76-97 ;  The  Glow-worm  and  Other 
Beetles,  chap,  ix.,  "  Dung-beetles  of  the  Pampas." 

6 


The  Serignan  Jubilee 

Serignan:  "Who  has  taught  each  one  its 
trade,  to  the  exclusion  of  any  other,  and 
allotted  the  parts  which  they  fill,  as  a  rule 
with  a  completeness  unequalled,  save  by 
'  their  absolute  unconsciousness  of  the  goal 
at  which  they  are  aiming?'  This  is  a  very 
important  problem:  it  is  the  problem  of  the 
origin  of  things.  Henri  Fabre  has  no  de- 
sire to  grapple  with  it.  Living  in  perpetual 
amazement,  amid  the  miracles  revealed  by 
his  genius,  he  observes,  but  he  does  not  ex- 
plain." 

For  the  moment  we  can  no  longer  sub- 
scribe to  the  assertions  of  the  learned  Aca- 
demician,1 nor  to  his  fashion  of  writing  his- 
tory, which  is  decidedly  too  free.  The  truth 
is  that  Fabre,  who  delights  in  the  pageant  of 
the  living  world,  does  not  always  confine  him- 
self to  recording  it;  he  readily  passes  from 
the  smallest  details  of  observation  to  the 
wide  purviews  of  reason,  and  he  is  at  times 
as  much  a  philosopher  as  a  poet  and  a  natu- 
ralist. The  truth  is  that  he  often  considers 
the  question  of  the  origins  of  life,  and  he 
answers  it  unequivocally  like  the  believer  that 
he  is.  It  is  enough  to  cite  one  passage  among 
others,  a  passage  which  testifies  to  a  brief 
uplifting  of  the  heart  that  presupposes  many 

1  M.  E.  Perrier  is  a  Member  of  the  Institut  de  France. 

7 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

others:  "The  eternal  question,  if  one  does 
not  rise  above  the  doctrine  of  dust  to  dust: 
how  did  the  insect  acquire  so  discerning  an 
art?"  And  the  following  lines  from  the 
close  of  the  same  chapter:  "  The  pill-maker's 
work  confronts  the  reflective  mind  with  a 
serious  problem.  It  offers  us  these  alter- 
natives: either  we  must  grant  the  flattened 
cranium  of  the  Dung-beetle  the  distinguished 
honour  of  having  solved  for  itself  the  geo- 
metrical problem  of  the  alimentary  pill,  or 
we  must  refer  it  to  a  harmony  that  governs 
all  things  beneath  the  eye  of  an  Intelligence 
which,  knowing  all  things,  has  provided  for 
all?"1 

And  indeed,  when  we  consider  closely,  with 
the  author  of  the  Souvenirs,  all  the  prodigies 
of  art,  all  the  marks  of  ingenuity  displayed 
by  these  sorry  creatures,  so  inept  in  other  re- 
spects, then,  whatever  hypothesis  we  may 
prefer  as  to  the  formation  of  species, 
whether  with  Fabre  we  believe  them  fixed 
and  unchanging,  or  whether  with  Gaudry 2 

1  Souvenirs,  VI.,  pp.  76,  97 ;   The  Glo<w-ivorm,  chap.  ix. 

2  M.  Albert   Gaudry  is   a   sometime   professor  of  pal- 
aeontology in  the  Museum   of  Natural  History,  who,  by 
virtue  of  his  palaeontological  discoveries  and  works,  has 
acquired   a  great  authority  in  the   scientific  world.     His 
Enchainements  du  Monde  Animal  dans  les  Temps  Geolo- 
ffiques  is  especially  valued  and  often  cited.     Gaudry,  who 
is  a  good  Catholic  as  well  as  a  scientist  of  the  first  rank, 

8 


'     The  Serignan  Jubilee 

we  believe  in  their  evolution,  we  cannot  re- 
frain from  proclaiming  the  necessity  of  a 
sovereign  Mind,  the  creator  and  instigator 
of  order  and  harmony,  and  we  are  quite  natu- 
rally led  to  repeat,  to  the  glory  of  God  the 
Creator,  the  beautiful  saying  of  Saint  Au- 
gustine: "Fecit  in  ccelis  angelos  et  in  terris 
vermiculos,  nee  major  in  illis  nee  minor  in 
istis." 

Now  this  venerable  nonagenarian  whom 
naturalists,  poets,  and  philosophers  are  so 
justly  about  to  honour  in  Serignan,  because 
his  brow  is  radiant  with  the  purest  rays  of 
science,  poetry,  and  philosophy:  this  ento- 
mologist of  real  genius,  he  whom  Edmond 
Perrier  ranks  among  "  the  princes  of  natural 
history,"  he  whom  Victor  Hugo  called  "  the 
insects'  Homer,"  he  whom  Darwin  pro- 
claimed "  an  incomparable  observer" :  who  is 
there  in  Aveyron,  knowing  that  he  was  born 
beneath  our  skies  and  that  he  has  dwelt  upon 
our  soil,  but  will  rejoice  to  feel  that  he  be- 
longs to  us  by  his  birth  and  the  whole  of  his 
youth  ? 

very  definitely  accepts  the  evolution  of  species;  but  for 
him,  as  for  Fabre,  the  activity  of  the  animal  kingdom, 
like  that  of  the  world  in  general,  is  inconceivable  apart 
from  a  sovereign  mind  which  has  foreseen  all  things 
and  provided  for  all  things. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   URCHIN  OF  MALAVAL 

JEAN-HENRI  FABRE  was  born  at  Saint- 
Leons,  the  market-town  and  adminis- 
trative centre  of  the  canton  of  Vezins.  In 
witness  of  which  behold  this  extract  from  the 
register  of  baptisms,  a  certified  copy  tran- 
scribed by  the  Abbe  Lafon,  cure  of  Saint- 
Leons  : 

In  the  year  1823,  on  the  22nd  September,  was 
baptised  Jean-Henri-Casimir  Fabre,  of  the  afore- 
said Saint-Leons,  the  legitimate  son  of  Antoine 
Fabre  and  Victoire  Salgues,  inhabitants  of  the  same 
place: — His  godfather  was  Pierre  Ricard,  primary 
schoolmaster.  In  proof  of  which — Fabre,  vicar.1 

Jean-Henri  Casimir's  mother,  by  birth 
Victoire  Salgues,  was  the  daughter  of  the 
bailiff  of  Saint-Leons.  His  father,  Antoine 
Fabre,  was  born  in  a  little  mas  in  the  parish 
of  Lavaysse,  Malaval,  where  his  parents 
were  still  cultivating  the  old  family  property 

1  Those  journals  which  claim  him  as  a  native  of  Serig- 

nan   are  therefore  mistaken.     "At  Serignan    (Vaucluse), 

his  native  countryside,  the  peasants  familiarly  call  him 

Moufsu  FabrS  (Univers,  March  3,  1910). 

10 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

which  since  then  has  passed  to  the  head  of 
the  Vaissiere  family. 

It  was  thus  at  Malaval  that  the  future  en- 
tomologist "  passed  his  earliest  childhood," 
as  he  told  me  when  writing  to  me  ten  years 
ago.1  There  was  no  wallowing  in  abundance 
at  Saint-Leons.  In  order  to  relieve  the  poor 
household  of  one  mouth,  he  was  confided  to 
the  care  of  his  grandmother  and  sent  to 
Malaval.  "  There,  in  solitude,  amid  the 
geese,  the  calves,  and  the  sheep,  my  mind  first 
awoke  to  consciousness.  What  went  before 
is  for  me  shrouded  in  impenetrable  dark- 
ness." 

The  spot  which  was  the  scene  of  this  first 
awakening  deserves  description.  When  one 
follows  the  road  from  Laissac  to  Vezins, 
a  short  distance  after  passing  Vaysse-Rodie, 
just  as  one  has  almost  reached  the  crest  of 
the  height  which  by  reason  of  its  rocky  hel- 
met is  called  the  puech  del  Roucas,  on  the 
line  of  the  watershed  dividing  the  limestone 
basin  of  the  Aveyron  from  the  granitic  basin 

1  In  the  reminiscences  of  his  childhood,  which  are  in- 
termingled with  his  entomological  memoirs,  Fabre  does 
not  mention  a  single  proper  name,  whether  of  person 
or  place;  only  the  vague  expression,  "the  table-land 
of  the  Rouergue,"  which  he  once  incidentally  employs, 
might  give  an  attentive  reader  a  hint  as  to  the  place  of 
his  origin.  Souvenirs,  vi.,  p.  38;  The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap,  v.,  "  Heredity." 

II 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  the  Viaur,  on  turning  sharply  to  the  right 
one  sees  before  one  the  austere  Malavallis, 
dominated  on  the  one  hand  by  the  height 
of  Lavaysse  with  its  ancient  church,  and  en- 
livened a  little  on  the  other  side  by  the  tiny 
hamlet  of  Malaval,  which  consists,  to-day, 
of  two  farm-houses ;  one  whiter,  more  cheer- 
ful-looking, and  on  lower  ground;  the  other 
standing  higher,  greyer  in  hue,  and  more  dif- 
ficult to  discover  in  the  shade  of  the  oak- 
trees  and  thickets  of  broom  and  blackthorn 
which  form  a  dense  mantle  of  green  about 
it.  It  was  there,  amid  these  trees,  in  this 
house,  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
in  sight  of  the  sturdy  belfry  of  Lavaysse, 
that  Jean-Henri  Fabre  was  "born  into  the 
true  life,"  the  life  of  the  mind.  Here,  on 
this  hillside,  which  directly  faces  the  east, 
he  made  his  earliest  discoveries;  here,  one 
fine  morning,  as  he  will  presently  tell  us,  he 
discovered  the  sun;  here,  he  saw  not  only 
the  dawn  of  day,  but  also  "  that  inward 
dawn,  so  far  swept  clear  of  the  clouds  of  un- 
consciousness as  to  leave  him  a  lasting  mem- 
ory." 

Nothing  could  take  the  place  of  the  pic- 
turesqueness  and  sincerity  of  the  narrative 
in  which  he  has  related  these  earliest  im- 
pressions of  his  childhood: 
12 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

My  grandparents1  were  people  whose  quarrel 
with  the  alphabet  was  so  great  that  they  had  never 
opened  a  book  in  their  lives;  and  they  kept  a  lean 
farm  on  the  cold  granite  ridge  of  the  Rouergue 

1  These  paternal  grandparents,  of  whom  our  hero  has 
retained  so  vivid  a  recollection,  bore  the  names  of  Jean- 
Pierre  Fabre  and  Elisabeth  Poujade.  Patient  searching 
of  the  archives,  assisted,  fortunately,  by  the  goodwill  of 
M.  Toscan,  registrar  to  the  Justice  of  the  Peace  for 
Vezins,  has  enabled  us  to  reproduce  their  marriage  con- 
tract, which  is  full  of  information  hitherto  unpublished, 
and  curious  details  of  domestic  life  which  will  not  fail 
to  interest  the  reader: 

"In  the  year  1791  and  on  the  isth  day  of  the  month 
of  February,  in  the  locality  of  Segur,  province  of  Avei- 
ron,  in  the  presence  of  me,  Raymond  Rous,  man  of  law 
and  notary  royal  .  .  .  have  been  devised  and  concluded 
the  following  articles  of  marriage  between  Pierre-Jean 
Fabre,  legitimate  son  of  Pierre  Fabre,  landowner  and 
farmer,  and  Anne  Fages,  husband  and  wife  of  the  village 
of  Malaval,  on  the  one  part,  and  Elisabeth  Poujade, 
legitimate  daughter  of  Antoine  Poujade,  landowner,  and 
Franchise  Azemar,  husband  and  wife  of  the  village  of 
Mont,  parish  of  Notre-Dame  d'Arques,  on  the  other  part 
— the  said  parties  acting,  namely,  the  said  future  hus- 
band with  the  knowledge  and  consent  of  his  father  and 
mother  here  present,  and  the  said  future  wife,  she  being 
absent,  but  the  said  Poujade  for  her,  being  here  pres- 
ent stipulating  and  accepting— have  in  the  first  place 
promised  that  the  said  marriage  shall  be  solemnised  be- 
fore the  Church  at  the  first  demand  of  one  of  the  par- 
ties, under  penalty  of  all  expenses,  damages,  and  inter- 
ests— in  the  second  place,  the  said  Fabre  and  Fages, 
husband  and  wife,  favouring  and  contemplating  the 
present  marriage  have  given  and  are  giving  by  dona- 
tion, declared  between  living  persons,  to  the  aforesaid 
their  son,  the  future  husband,  all  and  each  of  their  pos- 
sessions, movable  and  immovable,  present  and  future, 
under  the  clauses,  conditions,  and  reserves  hereafter  fol- 
lowing: firstly,  to  be  fed  at  the  same  table  of  the  same 
victuals  as  the  said  donor;  secondly,  and  in  case  of  in- 

13 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

table-land.  The  house,  standing  alone  amidst  the 
heath  and  broom,  with  no  neighbour  for  many  a 
mile  around  and  visited  at  intervals  by  the  wolves, 
was  to  them  the  hub  of  the  universe.  But  for  a 

compatibility,  they  reserve  to  themselves  the  same  in- 
come as  Jean  Fabre  and  Franchise  Fabre,  father  and 
mother  of  the  donor,  reserved  to  themselves  in  the  mar- 
riage contract  of  the  said  Fabre  received  by  M.  Dufieu, 
notary  .  .  .  ;  thirdly,  to  settle  upon  their  other  children 
a  portion  such  as  by  law  shall  pertain  to  them  out  of 
their  possessions  in  money  when  they  accept  a  settle- 
ment; and  in  case  Franchise  and  Anne  Fabre  should 
not  desire  so  to  do,  they  shall  enjoy  the  annual  pension 
...  of  three  setters  each  of  rye,  two  quarters  each  of 
oats,  five  pounds  each  of  butter,  and  five  pounds  each 
of  cheese;  the  use  of  their  usual  bed,  and  of  their  spin- 
ning-wheel ;  the  use  of  their  clothes-press  and  the  small 
articles  of  furniture  necessary  according  to  their  con- 
dition; .  .  .  the  said  Fages,  the  mother,  reserves  to  her- 
self the  sum  of  thirty  francs  to  be  paid  once  at  her  will 
to  employ  and  dispose  as  she  shall  see  fit.  In  the  third 
place,  the  said  Poujade,  the  father,  favouring  and  con- 
templating the  present  marriage,  has  given  and  con- 
stituted as  the  dowry  of  his  daughter,  the  future  wife, 
to  take  the  place  of  any  right  to  a  portion  which  she 
might  claim  against  his  goods  and  those  of  the  mother 
aforesaid,  a  clothes-press  with  apparel  valued  at  a  hun- 
dred livres,  a  heifer  and  a  cow  valued  the  two  at  eighty 
francs,  two  sheep,  and  the  sum  of  fifteen  hundred  livres, 
the  said  sum  being  made  up  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
livres  of  the  maternal  parent's  and  the  rest  of  the  pa- 
ternal parent's  money.  .  .  . 

Devised  and  rehearsed  in  the  presence  of  the  sieur 
Joseph  Dejean,  burgher  of  Moulin-Savi,  and  the  sieur 
Andre  Bourles,  practitioner  of  Segur,  signed  by  the  afore- 
said Fabre,  father  and  son,  and  the  aforesaid  Poujade, 
father,  and  not  the  aforesaid  Fages,  who,  being  requested 
to  sign,  has  stated  that  she  is  not  able  to  do  so.  ... 

Forwarded  by  us,  the  notary  undersigned,  holder  of 
the  draft  at  Segur,  the  i2th  April  1807. 

Rous,  notary,'' 

14 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

few  surrounding  villages,  whither  the  calves  were 
driven  upon  fair-days,  the  rest  was  only  very 
vaguely  known  by  hearsay.  In  this  wild  solitude, 
the  mossy  fens,  with  their  quagmires  oozing  with 
iridescent  pools,  supplied  the  cows,  the  principal 
source  of  wealth,  with  plentiful  pasture.  In  sum- 
mer, on  the  short  sward  of  the  slopes,  the  sheep 
were  penned  day  and  night,  protected  from  beasts 
of  prey  by  a  fence  of  hurdles  propped  up  with 
pitchforks.  When  the  grass  was  cropped  close  at 
one  spot,  the  fold  was  shifted  elsewhither.  In  the 
centre  was  the  shepherd's  rolling  hut,  a  straw  cabin. 
Two  watch-dogs,  equipped  with  spiked  collars, 
were  answerable  for  tranquillity  if  the  thieving 
wolf  appeared  in  the  night  from  out  the  neigh- 
bouring woods. 

Padded  with  a  perpetual  layer  of  cow-dung,  in 
which  I  sank  to  my  knees,  broken  up  shimmering 
puddles  of  dark-brown  liquid  manure,  the  farm- 
yard also  boasted  a  numerous  population.  Here 
the  lambs  skipped,  the  geese  trumpeted,  the 
fowls  scratched  the  ground,  and  the  sow  grunted 
with  her  swarm  of  little  pigs  hanging  to  her 
dugs. 

The  harshness  of  the  climate  did  not  give  hus- 
bandry the  same  chances.  In  a  propitious  season 
they  would  set  fire  to  a  stretch  of  moorland  bris- 
tling with  gorse  and  send  the  swing-plough  across 
the  ground  enriched  by  the  cinders  from  the  fire. 
This  yielded  a  few  acres  of  rye,  oats,  and  potatoes. 
The  best  corners  were  kept  for  hemp,  which  fur- 
nished the  distaffs  and  spindles  of  the  house  with 
IS 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  material  for  cloth,  and  was  looked  upon  as 
grandmother's  private  crop. 

Grandfather,  therefore,  was,  before  all,  a  herds- 
man versed  in  the  love  of  cows  and  sheep,  but  com- 
pletely ignorant  of  aught  else.  How  dumbfounded 
he  would  have  been  to  learn  that,  in  the  remote 
future,  one  of  his  family  would  become  enamoured 
of  those  insignificant  animals  to  which  he  had  never 
vouchsafed  a  glance  in  his  life!  Had  he  guessed 
that  that  lunatic  was  myself,  the  scapegrace  seated 
at  the  table  by  his  side,  what  a  smack  of  the 
head  I  should  have  caught,  what  a  wrathful 
look! 

"  The  idea  of  wasting  one's  time  with  that  non- 
sense !  "  he  would  have  thundered. 

For  the  patriarch  was  not  given  to  joking.  I 
can  still  see  his  serious  face,  his  undipped  head 
of  hair,  often  brought  back  behind  his  ears  with 
a  flick  of  the  thumb  and  spreading  its  ancient 
Gallic  mane  over  his  shoulders.  I  see  his  little 
three-cornered  hat,  his  small-clothes  buckled  at  the 
knees,  his  wooden  shoes,  stuffed  with  straw,  that 
echoed  as  he  walked.  Ah,  no!  Once  childhood's 
games  were  past,  it  would  never  have  done  to  rear 
the  Grasshopper  and  unearth  the  Dung-beetle  from 
his  natural  surroundings. 

Grandmother,  pious  soul,  used  to  wear  the  ec- 
centric headdress  of  the  Rouergue  highlanders:  a 
large  disk  of  black  felt,  stiff  as  a  plank,  adorned 
in  the  middle  with  a  crown  a  finger's-breadth  high 
and  hardly  wider  across  than  a  six-franc  piece.  A 
black  ribbon  fastened  under  the  chin  maintained 

16 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

the  equilibrium  of  this  elegant,  but  unstable  circle. 
Pickles,  hemp,  chickens,  curds  and  whey,  butter; 
washing  the  clothes,  minding  the  children,  seeing 
to  the  meals  of  the  household:  say  that  and  you 
have  summed  up  the  strenuous  woman's  round  of 
ideas.  On  her  left  side,  the  distaff,  with  its  load 
of  tow ;  in  her  right  hand,  the  spindle  turning  under 
a  quick  twist  of  her  thumb,  moistened  at  intervals 
with  her  tongue:  so  she  went  through  life,  un- 
weariedly,  attending  to  the  order  and  the  welfare 
of  the  house.  I  see  her  in  my  mind's  eye,  particu- 
larly on  winter  evenings,  which  were  more  favour- 
able to  family  talk.  When  the  hour  came  for 
meals,  all  of  us,  big  and  little,  would  take  our 
seats  round  a  long  table,  on  a  couple  of  benches, 
deal  planks  supported  by  four  rickety  legs.  Each 
found  his  wooden  bowl  and  his  tin  spoon  in  front 
of  him.  At  one  end  of  the  table  there  always 
stood  an  enormous  rye-loaf,  the  size  of  a  cart- 
wheel, wrapped  in  a  linen  cloth  with  a  pleasant 
smell  of  washing,  and  there  it  remained  until 
nothing  was  left  of  it.  With  a  vigorous  stroke, 
grandfather  would  cut  off  enough  for  the  needs 
of  the  moment;  then  he  would  divide  the  piece 
among  us  with  the  one  knife  which  he  alone  was 
entitled  to  wield.  It  was  now  each  one's  business 
to  break  up  his  bit  with  his  fingers  and  to  fill  his 
bowl  as  he  pleased. 

Next  came  grandmother's  turn.  A  capacious  pot 
bubbled  lustily  and  sang  upon  the  flames  in  the 
hearth,  exhaling  an  appetising  savour  of  bacon  and 
turnips.  Armed  with  a  long  metal  ladle,  grand- 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

mother  would  take  from  it,  for  each  of  us  in  turn, 
first  the  broth,  wherein  to  soak  the  bread,  and 
next  the  ration  of  turnips  and  bacon,  partly  fat 
and  partly  lean,  filling  the  bowl  to  the  top.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  table  was  the  pitcher,  from 
which  the  thirsty  were  free  to  drink  at  will.  What 
appetites  we  had,  and  what  festive  meals  those 
were,  especially  when  a  cream-cheese,  home-made, 
was  there  to  complete  the  banquet! 

Near  us  blazed  the  huge  fire-place,  in  which 
whole  tree-trunks  were  consumed  in  the  extreme 
cold  weather.  From  a  corner  of  that  monumental, 
soot-glazed  chimney,  projected,  at  a  convenient 
height,  a  slate  shelf,  which  served  to  light  the 
kitchen  when  we  sat  up  late.  On  this  we  burnt 
slips  of  pine-wood,  selected  among  the  most  trans- 
lucent, those  containing  the  most  resin.  They  shed 
over  the  room  a  lurid  red  light,  which  saved  the 
walnut-oil  in  the  lamp. 

When  the  bowls  were  emptied  and  the  last 
crumb  of  cheese  scraped  up,  grandam  went  back 
to  her  distaff,  on  a  stool  by  the  chimney-corner. 
We  children,  boys  and  girls,  squatting  on  our 
heels  and  putting  out  our  hands  to  the  cheerful 
fire  of  furze,  formed  a  circle  round  her  and  listened 
to  her  with  eager  ears.  She  told  us  stories,  not 
greatly  varied,  it  is  true,  but  still  wonderful,  for 
the  wolf  often  played  a  part  in  them.  I  should 
have  very  much  liked  to  see  this  wolf,  the  hero 
of  so  many  tales  that  made  our  flesh  creep;  but 
the  shepherd  always  refused  to  take  me  into  his 
straw  hut,  In  the  middle  of  the  fold,  at  night. 
18 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

When  we  had  done  talking  about  the  horrid  wolf, 
the  dragon,  and  the  serpent,  and  when  the  resinous 
splinters  had  given  out  their  last  gleams,  we  went 
to  sleep  the  sweet  sleep  that  toil  gives.  As  the 
youngest  of  the  household,  I  had  a  right  to  the 
mattress,  a  sack  stuffed  with  oat-chaff.  The  others 
had  to  be  content  with  straw. 

I  owe  a  great  deal  to  you,  dear  grandmother: 
it  was  in  your  lap  that  I  found  consolation  for  my 
first  sorrows.  You  have  handed  down  to  me,  per- 
haps, a  little  of  your  physical  vigour,  a  little  of 
your  love  of  work;  but  certainly  you  were  no  more 
accountable  than  grandfather  for  my  passion  for 
insects. 

And  yet  in  me,  the  observer,  the  inquirer  into 
things,  began  to  take  shape  almost  in  infancy.  Why 
should  I  not  describe  my  first  discoveries?  They 
are  ingenuous  in  the  extreme,  but  will  serve  not- 
withstanding to  tell  us  something  of  the  way  in 
which  tendencies  first  show  themselves. 

I  was  five  or  six  years  old.  That  the  poor 
household  might  have  one  mouth  less  to  feed,  I 
had  been  placed  in  grandmother's  care.  Here,  in 
solitude,  my  first  gleams  of  intelligence  were  awak- 
ened amidst  the  geese,  the  calves,  and  the  sheep. 
Everything  before  that  is  impenetrable  darkness. 
My  real  birth  was  at  the  moment  when  the  dawn 
of  personality  rises,  dispersing  the  mists  of  uncon- 
sciousness and  leaving  a  lasting  memory.  I  can 
see  myself  plainly,  clad  in  a  soiled  frieze  frock 
flapping  against  my  bare  heels;  I  remember  the 
handkerchief  hanging  from  my  waist  by  a  bit  pf 
19 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

string,  a  handkerchief  often  lost  and  replaced  by 
the  back  of  my  sleeve. 

There  I  stand  one  day,  a  pensive  urchin,  with 
my  hands  behind  my  back  and  my  face  turned 
to  the  sun.  The  dazzling  splendour  fascinates 
me.  I  am  the  Moth  attracted  by  the  light  of 
the  lamp.  With  what  am  I  enjoying  the  glori- 
ous radiance:  with  my  mouth  or  my  eyes?  That 
is  the  question  put  by  my  budding  scientific  curi- 
osity. Reader,  do  not  smile!  the  future  observer 
is  already  practising  and  experimenting.  I  open 
my  mouth  wide  and  close  my  eyes:  the  glory  dis- 
appears. I  open  my  eyes  and  shut  my  mouth: 
the  glory  reappears.  I  repeat  the  performance, 
with  the  same  result.  The  question's  solved:  I 
have  learnt  by  deduction  that  I  see  the  sun  with 
my  eyes.  What  a  discovery!  That  evening  I 
told  the  whole  house  all  about  it.  Grandmother 
smiled  fondly  at  my  simplicity:  the  others  laughed 
at  it.  'Tis  the  way  of  the  world. 

Another  find.  At  nightfall,  amidst  the  neigh- 
bouring bushes,  a  sort  of  jingle  attracted  my  atten- 
tion, sounding  very  faintly  and  softly  through  the 
evening  silence.  Who  is  making  that  noise?  Is 
it  a  little  bird  chirping  in  his  nest?  We  must 
look  into  the  matter,  and  that  quickly.  True, 
there  is  the  wolf,  who  comes  out  of  the  woods 
at  this  time,  so  they  tell  me.  Let's  go  all  the 
same,  but  not  too  far:  just  there,  behind  that 
clump  of  broom.  I  stand  on  the  look-out  for  long, 
but  all  in  vain.  At  the  faintest  sound  of  move- 
ment in  the  brushwood,  the  jingle  ceases.  I  try 
2O 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

again  next  day  and  the  day  after.  This  time  my 
stubborn  watch  succeeds.  Whoosh!  A  grab  of 
my  hand  and  I  hold  the  singer.  It  is  not  a  bird; 
it  is  a  kind  of  Grasshopper  whose  hind-legs  my 
playfellows  have  taught  me  to  relish :  a  poor  recom- 
pense for  my  prolonged  ambush.  The  best  part 
of  the  business  is  not  the  two  haunches  with  the 
shrimpy  flavour,  but  what  I  have  just  learnt.  I  now 
know,  from  personal  observation,  that  the  Grass- 
hopper sings.  I  did  not  publish  my  discovery  for 
fear  of  the  same  laughter  that  greeted  my  story 
about  the  sun. 

Oh,  what  pretty  flowers,  in  a  field  close  to 
the  house!  They  seem  to  smile  to  me  with  their 
great  violet  eyes.  Later  on  I  see,  in  their  place, 
bunches  of  big  red  cherries.  I  taste  them.  They 
are  not  nice,  and  they  have  no  stones.  What  can 
those  cherries  be?  At  the  end  of  the  summer, 
grandfather  walks  up  with  a  spade  and  turns  my 
field  of  observation  topsy-turvy.  From  under 
ground  there  comes,  by  the  basketful  and  sackful, 
a  sort  of  round  root.  I  know  that  root ;  it  abounds 
in  the  house;  time  after  time  I  have  cooked  it  in 
the  peat-stove.  It  is  the  potato.  Its  violet  flower 
and  its  red  fruit  are  pigeon-holed  in  my  memory 
for  good  and  all. 

With  an  ever-watchful  eye  for  animals  and 
plants,  the  future  observer,  the  little  six-year-old 
monkey,  practised  by  himself,  all  unawares.  He 
went  to  the  flower,  he  went  to  the  insect,  even  as 
the  Large  White  Butterfly  goes  to  the  cabbage, 
and  the  Red  Admiral  to  the  thistle. 
21 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  more 
delightfully  the  gradual  development  of 
tastes  and  aptitudes  in  the  dawn  of  life. 

The  same  freshness  of  impression  and  the 
same  affinity  for  natural  objects  will  be 
found  in  another  recollection  of  the  same 
period:  the  recollection  of  "a  certain  har- 
monica," whose  music  to  the  "  ear  of  a  child 
of  six  "  sounded  as  sweet  and  strange  as  that 
of  the  frog  whom  he  heard  emitting  his  lim- 
pid note  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  soli- 
tary farm  as  the  last  light  of  evening  faded 
from  the  heights.  "  A  series  of  glass  slips, 
of  unequal  length,  fixed  upon  two  tightly- 
stretched  tapes,  and  a  cork  on  the  end  of  a 
wire,  which  served  as  a  striker  " :  such  was 
the  instrument  which  some  one  brought  the 
child  from  the  latest  fair.  "  Imagine  an  un- 
tutored hand  striking  at  random  upon  this 
key-board,  with  the  most  riotous  unexpected- 
ness of  octaves,  discords,  and  inverted  har- 
monies " :  such  was  the  chiming  of  the  bell- 
ringer  frogs  on  the  sunken  lanes  of  Malaval. 
"As  a  song  it  had  neither  head  nor  tail; 
but  the  purity  of  the  sound  was  delightful." 
How  much  more  delightful,  in  the  first  radi- 
ance of  his  spontaneous  childhood,  this  little 
scrap  of  a  fellow  who  was  beginning  to  play 
his  part  in  the  great  concert  of  the  world, 
22 


The  Urchin  of  Malaval 

in  which  he  was  one  day  to  fill  so  notable  a 
place  and  to  sing  a  new  song  to  the  glory  of 
the  Master  of  Nature ! i 

1  This  account  of  the  naturalist's  childhood  is  drawn 
principally  from  The  Souvenirs,  vi.,  32-45;  see  The  Life 
of  the  Fly,  chap,  v.,  "  Heredity." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   SCHOOLBOY:    SAINT-LEONS 

"1T7ITH  his  seventh  year  the  time  came  for 
*  *  him  to  go  to  school.  The  school- 
master of  Saint-Leons  was  the  child's  god- 
father. Everything  pointed  to  him  as  the 
child's  first  teacher.  So  Jean-Henri  left  the 
ancestral  home  at  Malaval  to  return  to  his 
father's  house  at  Saint-Leons  and  attend  the 
local  school,  which  was  kept  by  his  godfather, 
Pierre  Ricard.  He  could  not  have  done  bet- 
ter as  a  start  in  life.  Let  us  leave  him  to 
paint  one  picture  of  this  second  phase  of  his 
life.  He  begins  with  a  description  of  the 
school : 

What  shall  I  call  the  room  in  which  I  was  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  alphabet?  It  would 
be  difficult  to  find  the  exact  word,  because  the 
room  served  for  every  purpose.  It  was  at  once 
a  school,  a  kitchen,  a  bedroom,  a  dining-room,  and, 
at  times,  a  chicken-house  and  a  piggery.  Palatial 
schools  were  not  dreamt  of  in  those  days;  any 
wretched  hovel  was  thought  good  enough. 

A  broad  fixed  ladder  led  to  the  floor  above. 
24 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

Under  the  ladder  stood  a  big  bed  in  a  boarded 
recess.  What  was  there  upstairs?  I  never  quite 
knew.  I  would  see  the  master  sometimes  bring 
down  an  armful  of  hay  for  the  ass,  sometimes  a 
basket  of  potatoes  which  the  housewife  emptied 
into  the  pot  in  which  the  little  porker's  food  was 
cooked.  It  must  have  been  a  loft  of  sorts,  a  store- 
house of  provisions  for  man  and  beast.  Those 
two  apartments  composed  the  whole  building. 

To  return  to  the  lower  one,  the  schoolroom:  a 
window  faces  south,  the  only  window  in  the  house, 
a  long,  narrow  window  whose  frame  you  can  touch 
at  the  same  time  with  your  head  and  both  your 
shoulders.  This  sunny  aperture  is  the  only  lively 
spot  in  the  dwelling;  it  overlooks  the  greater  part 
of  the  village,  which  straggles  along  the  slopes  of 
a  tapering  valley.  In  the  window-recess  is  the 
master's  little  table. 

The  opposite  wall  contains  a  niche  in  which 
stands  a  gleaming  copper  pail  full  of  water.  Here 
the  parched  children  can  relieve  their  thirst  when 
they  please,  with  a  cup  left  within  their  reach. 
At  the  top  of  the  niche  are  a  few  shelves  bright 
with  pewter  plates,  dishes,  and  drinking-vessels, 
which  are  taken  down  from  their  sanctuary  on 
great  occasions  only. 

More  or  less  everywhere,  at  any  spot  which  the 
light  touches,  are  crudely-coloured  pictures,  pasted 
on  the  walls.  Here  is  Our  Lady  of  the  Seven 
Dolours,  the  disconsolate  Mother  of  God,  opening 
her  blue  cloak  to  show  her  heart  pierced  with  seven 
daggers.  Between  the  sun  and  moon,  which  stare 

25 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

at  you  with  their  great,  round  eyes,  is  the  Eternal 
Father,  Whose  robe  swells  as  though  puffed  out 
with  the  storm.  To  the  right  of  the  window,  in 
the  embrasure,  is  the  Wandering  Jew.  He  wears 
a  three-cornered  hat,  a  large,  white,  leather  apron, 
hobnailed  shoes,  and  carries  a  stout  stick.  "  Never 
was  such  a  bearded  man  seen  before  or  after," 
says  the  legend  that  surrounds  the  picture.  The 
draughtsman  has  not  forgotten  this  detail;  the  old 
man's  beard  spreads  in  a  snowy  avalanche  over  the 
apron  and  comes  down  to  his  knees.  On  the  left 
is  Genevieve  of  Brabant,  accompanied  by  the  roe; 
with  cruel  Golo  hiding  in  the  bushes,  sword  in 
hand.  Above  hangs  The  Death  of  Mr.  Credit, 
slain  by  defaulters  at  the  door  of  his  inn;  and 
so  on  and  so  on,  in  every  variety  of  subject,  at 
all  the  unoccupied  spots  of  the  four  walls. 

I  was  filled  with  admiration  of  this  picture- 
gallery,  which  held  one's  eyes  with  its  great  patches 
of  red,  blue,  green,  and  yellow.  The  master,  how- 
ever, had  not  set  up  his  collection  with  a  view 
to  training  our  minds  and  hearts.  That  was  the 
last  and  least  of  the  worthy  man's  ambitions.  An 
artist  in  his  fashion,  he  had  adorned  his  house  ac- 
cording to  his  taste;  and  we  benefited  by  the 
scheme  of  decoration. 

While  the  gallery  of  halfpenny  pictures  made 
me  happy  all  the  year  round,  there  was  another 
entertainment  which  I  found  particularly  attrac- 
tive in  winter,  in  frosty  weather,  when  the  snow 
lay  long  on  the  ground.  Against  the  far  wall 
stands  the  fire-place,  as  monumental  in  size  as  at 
26 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

my  grandmother's.  Its  arched  cornice  occupies  the 
whole  width  of  the  room,  for  the  enormous  re- 
doubt fulfils  more  than  one  purpose.  In  the  mid- 
dle is  the  hearth,  but  on  the  right  and  the  left 
are  two  breast-high  recesses,  half  wood  and  half 
stone.  Each  of  them  is  a  bed,  with  a  mattress 
stuffed  with  husks  of  winnowed  corn.  Two  slid- 
ing boards  serve  as  shutters  and  close  the  chest  if 
the  sleeper  would  be  alone.  This  dormitory,  shel- 
tered under  the  chimney  breast,  supplies  couches 
for  the  favoured  ones  of  the  house,  the  boarders. 
They  must  lie  snug  in  them  at  night,  when  the 
north  wind  howls  at  the  mouth  of  the  dark  valley 
and  sends  the  snow  awhirl.  The  rest  is  occupied 
by  the  hearth  and  its  accessories:  the  three-legged 
stools;  the  salt-box,  hanging  against  the  wall  to 
keep  its  contents  dry;  the  heavy  shovel  which  it 
takes  two  hands  to  wield ;  lastly,  the  bellows,  sim- 
ilar to  those  with  which  I  used  to  blow  out  my 
cheeks  in  grandfather's  house.  They  consist  of  a 
big  branch  of  pine,  hollowed  throughout  its  length 
with  a  red-hot  iron.  By  means  of  this  channel 
one's  breath  is  applied,  from  a  convenient  distance, 
to  the  spot  which  is  to  be  revived.  With  a  couple 
of  stones  for  supports,  the  master's  bundle  of  sticks 
and  our  own  logs  blaze  and  flicker,  for  each  of 
us  has  to  bring  a  log  of  wood  in  the  morning, 
if  he  would  share  in  the  treat. 

Nevertheless,    the   fire   was   not   exactly   lit   for 

us,  but,  most  of  all,  to  warm  a  row  of  three  pots 

in  which  simmered   the   pigs'   food,   a  mixture  of 

potatoes  and  bran.     That,    despite  the  tribute  of 

27 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

a  log,  was  the  real  object  of  the  brushwood  fire. 
The  two  boarders,  on  their  stools,  in  the  best  places, 
and  we  others,  sitting  on  our  heels,  formed  a  semi- 
circle around  those  big  cauldrons  full  to  the  brim 
and  giving  off  little  jets  of  steam,  with  puff-puff- 
puffing  sounds.  The  bolder  among  us,  when  the 
master's  eyes  were  engaged  elsewhere,  would  dig  a 
knife  into  a  well-cooked  potato  and  add  it  to  their 
bit  of  bread;  for  I  must  say  that,  if  we  did  little 
work  at  my  school,  at  least  we  did  a  deal  of  eat- 
ing. It  was  the  regular  custom  to  crack  a  few 
nuts  and  nibble  at  a  crust  while  writing  our  page 
or  setting  out  our  rows  of  figures. 

We,  the  smaller  ones,  in  addition  to  the  com- 
fort of  studying  with  our  mouths  full,  had  every 
now  and  then  two  other  delights,  which  were  quite 
as  good  as  cracking  nuts.  The  back-door  com- 
municated with  the  yard  where  the  hen,  surrounded 
by  her  brood  of  chicks,  scratched  at  the  dung-hill, 
while  the  little  porkers,  of  whom  there  were  a 
dozen,  wallowed  in  their  stone  trough.  This  door 
would  open  sometimes  to  let  one  of  us  out,  a  priv- 
ilege which  we  abused,  for  the  sly  ones  among 
us  were  careful  not  to  close  it  on  returning.  Forth- 
with the  porkers  would  come  running  in,  one  after 
the  other,  attracted  by  the  smell  of  the  boiled  pota- 
toes. My  bench,  the  one  where  the  youngsters 
sat,  stood  against  the  wall,  under  the  copper  pail 
to  which  we  used  to  go  for  water  when  the  nuts 
had  made  us  thirsty,  and  was  right  in  the  way 
of  the  pigs.  Up  they  came  trotting  and  grunting, 
curling  their  little  tails;  they  rubbeo  against  our 
28 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

legs;  they  poked  their  cold,  pink  snouts  into  our 
hands  in  search  of  a  scrap  of  crust;  they  questioned 
us  with  their  sharp  little  eyes  to  learn  if  we  hap- 
pened to  have  a  dry  chestnut  for  them  in  our 
pockets.  When  they  had  gone  the  round,  some 
this  way  and  some  that,  they  went  back  to  the 
farmyard,  driven  away  by  a  friendly  flick  of  the 
master's  handkerchief.  Next  came  the  Visit  of  the 
hen,  bringing  her  velvet-coated  chicks  to  see  us. 
All  of  us  eagerly  crumbled  a  little  bread  for  our 
pretty  visitors.  We  vied  with  one  another  in  call- 
ing them  to  us  and  tickling  with  our  fingers  their 
soft  and  downy  backs.  No,  there  was  certainly  no 
lack  of  distraction.1 

Now  we  know  the  school,  with  all  its 
amenities,  and  our  curiosity,  aroused  to  the 
highest  pitch,  inquires,  not  without  some 
alarm,  what  was  taught  in  such  a  place  and 
in  such  company.  After  the  description  of 
the  class-room,  we  have  the  programme  of 
studies : 

Let  us  first  speak  of  the  young  ones,  of  whom 
I  was  one.  Each  of  us  had,  or  rather  was  sup- 
posed to  have,  in  his  hands  a  little  penny  book, 
the  alphabet,  printed  on  grey  paper.  It  began,  on 
the  cover,  with  a  pigeon  or  something  like  it. 
Next  came  a  cross,  followed  by  the  letters  in  their 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  pp.  46-68 ;  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
vi.,  "  My  Schooling." 

29 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

order.  When  we  turned  over,  our  eyes  encoun- 
tered the  terrible  ba,  be,  bi,  bo,  bu,  the  stumbling- 
block  of  most  of  us.  When  we  had  mastered  that 
formidable  page  we  were  considered  to  know  how 
to  read  and  were  admitted  among  the  big  ones. 
But  if  the  little  book  was  to  be  of  any  use,  the  least 
that  was  required  was  that  the  master  should  in- 
terest himself  in  us  to  some  extent  and  show  us 
how  to  set  about  things.  For  this  the  worthy 
man,  too  much  taken  up  with  the  big  boys,  had 
not  the  time.  The  famous  alphabet  with  the  pigeon 
was  thrust  upon  us  only  to  give  us  the  air  of 
scholars.  We  were  to  contemplate  it  on  our  bench, 
to  decipher  it  with  the  help  of  our  next  neigh- 
bours, in  case  he  might  know  one  or  two  of  the 
letters.  Our  contemplation  came  to  nothing,  being 
every  moment  disturbed  by  a  visit  to  the  potatoes 
in  the  stewpots,  a  quarrel  among  playmates  about 
a  marble,  the  grunting  invasion  of  the  porkers,  or 
the  arrival  of  the  chicks.  With  the  aid  of  these 
diversions  we  would  wait  patiently  until  it  was 
time  for  us  to  go  home.  That  was  our  most 
serious  work. 

The  big  ones  used  to  write.  They  had  the  benefit 
of  the  small  amount  of  light  in  the  room,  by  the 
narrow  window  where  the  Wandering  Jew  and 
ruthless  Golo  faced  each  other,  and  of  the  large 
and  only  table  with  its  circle  of  seats.  The  school 
supplied  nothing,  not  even  a  drop  of  ink;  every 
one  had  to  come  with  a  full  set  of  utensils.  The 
ink-horn  of  those  days,  a  relic  of  the  ancient  pen- 
case  of  which  Rabelais  speaks,  was  a  long  card- 

30 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

board  box  divided  into  two  stages.  The  upper 
compartment  held  the  pens,  made  of  goose-quill 
trimmed  with  a  penknife;  the  lower  contained,  in 
a  tiny  well,  ink  made  of  soot  mixed  with  vinegar. 

The  master's  great  business  was  to  mend  the 
pens — a  delicate  task,  not  without  danger  for  in- 
experienced ringers — and  then  to  trace  at  the  head 
of  the  white  page  a  line  of  strokes,  single  letters, 
or  words  according  to  the  scholar's  capabilities. 
When  that  is  over,  keep  an  eye  on  the  work  of 
art  which  is  coming  to  adorn  the  copy !  With  what 
undulating  movements  of  the  wrist  does  the  hand, 
resting  on  the  little  ringer,  prepare  and  plan  its 
flight !  All  at  once  the  hand  starts  off,  flies,  whirls ; 
and  lo  and  behold,  under  the  line  of  writing  is 
unfurled  a  garland  of  circles,  spirals,  and  flourishes, 
framing  a  bird  with  outspread  wings;  the  whole, 
if  you  please,  in  red  ink,  the  only  kind  worthy  of 
such  a  pen.  Large  and  small,  we  stood  awestruck 
in  the  presence  of  such  marvels.  The  family,  in 
the  evening,  after  supper,  would  pass  from  hand 
to  hand  the  masterpiece  brought  back  from 
school : — 

"  What  a  man !  "  was  the  comment.  "  What  a 
man,  to  draw  you  a  Holy  Ghost  with  one  stroke 
of  the  pen !  " 

What  was  read  at  my  school?  At  most,  in 
French,  a  few  selections  from  sacred  history.  Latin 
recurred  oftener,  to  teach  us  to  sing  vespers  prop- 
erly. The  more  advanced  pupils  tried  to  decipher 
manuscript,  a  deed  of  sale,  the  hieroglyphics  of 
some  scrivener. 

31 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

And  history,  geography?  No  one  ever  heard  of 
them.  What  difference  did  it  make  to  us  whether 
the  earth  was  round  or  square!  In  either  case, 
it  was  just  as  hard  to  make  it  bring  forth  any- 
thing. 

And  grammar?  The  master  troubled  his  head 
very  little  about  that,  and  we  still  less.  We  should 
have  been  greatly  surprised  by  the  novelty  and  the 
forbidding  look  of  such  words  in  the  grammatical 
jargon  as  substantive,  indicative,  and  subjunctive. 
Accuracy  of  language,  whether  of  speech  or  writ- 
ing, must  be  learnt  by  practice.  And  none  of  us 
was  troubled  by  scruples  in  this  respect.  What 
was  the  use  of  all  these  subtleties,  when,  on  com- 
ing out  of  school,  a  lad  went  back  to  his  flock 
of  sheep! 

And  arithmetic?  Yes,  we  did  a  little  of  this, 
but  not  under  that  learned  name.  We  called  it 
sums.  To  put  down  rows  of  figures,  not  too  long, 
add  them  and  subtract  them  one  from  the  other 
was  more  or  less  familiar  work.  On  Saturday 
evenings,  to  finish  up  the  week,  there  was  a  gen- 
eral orgy  of  sums.  The  top  boy  stood  up  and, 
in  a  loud  voice,  recited  the  multiplication  table 
up  to  twelve  times.  I  say  twelve  times,  for,  in 
those  days,  because  of  our  old  duodecimal  meas- 
ures, it  was  the  custom  to  count  as  far  as  the 
twelve-times  table,  instead  of  the  ten-times  of  the 
metric  system.  When  this  recital  was  over,  the 
whole  class,  the  little  ones  included,  shouted  it  in 
chorus,  creating  such  an  uproar  that  chicks  and 
porkers  took  to  flight  if  they  happened  to  be  there. 
22 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

And  this  went  on  to  twelve  times  twelve,  the  first 
in  the  row  starting  the  next  table  and  the  whole 
class  repeating  it  as  loud  as  it  could  yell.  Of  all 
that  we  were  taught  in  school,  the  multiplication 
table  was  what  we  knew  best,  for  this  noisy  method 
ended  by  dinning  the  different  numbers  into  our 
ears.  This  does  not  mean  that  we  became  skilful 
reckoners.  The  cleverest  of  us  easily  got  muddled 
with  the  figures  to  be  carried  in  a  multiplication 
sum.  As  for  division,  rare  indeed  were  they  who 
reached  such  heights.  In  short,  the  moment  a  prob- 
lem, however  insignificant,  had  to  be  solved,  we 
had  recourse  to  mental  gymnastics  much  rather  than 
to  the  learned  aid  of  arithmetic. 


This  account  cannot  be  suspected  of  any 
malicious  exaggeration:  the  narrator  is  too 
full  of  sympathy  for  his  old  master  to  do 
him  anything  less  than  justice.  In  any  case 
he  bears  him  no  grudge  in  respect  of  the  de- 
ficiencies of  his  teaching: 

When  all  is  said,  our  master  was  an  excellent 
man  who  could  have  kept  school  very  well  but  for 
his  lack  of  one  thing:  and  that  was  time.  He  de- 
voted to  us  all  the  little  leisure  which  his  numerous 
functions  left  him.  And  first  of  all,  he  managed 
the  property  of  an  absentee  landowner,  who  only 
occasionally  set  foot  in  the  village.  He  had  under 
his  care  an  old  castle  with  four  towers,  which  had 

33 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

become  so  many  pigeon-houses;  he  directed  the  get- 
ting-in  of  the  hay,  the  walnuts,  the  apples,  and 
the  oats.  We  used  to  help  him  during  the  sum- 
mer, when  the  school,  which  was  well  attended 
in  winter,  was  almost  deserted.  The  few  who  re- 
mained, because  they  were  not  yet  big  enough  to 
work  in  the  fields,  were  small  children,  including 
him  who  was  one  day  to  set  down  these  memorable 
facts.  Lessons  were  less  dull  at  that  time  of  year. 
They  were  often  given  on  the  hay  or  the  straw; 
oftener  still,  lesson-time  was  spent  in  cleaning  out 
the  dovecot  or  stamping  on  the  snails  that  had 
sallied  in  rainy  weather  from  their  ramparts,  the 
tall  box  borders  of  the  garden  belonging  to  the 
castle. 

Our  master  was  a  barber.  With  his  light  hand, 
which  was  so  clever  at  beautifying  our  copies  with 
curlicue  birds,  he  shaved  the  notabilities  of  the 
place:  the  mayor,  the  parish  priest,  the  notary. 
Our  master  was  a  bell-ringer.  A  wedding  or  a 
christening  interrupted  the  lessons;  he  had  to  ring 
a  peal.  A  gathering  storm  gave  us  a  holiday:  the 
great  bell  must  be  tolled  to  ward  off  the  lightning 
and  the  hail.  Our  master  was  a  choir-singer. 
With  his  mighty  voice  he  filled  the  church  where 
he  led  the  Magnificat  at  vespers.  Our  master 
wound  up  the  village  clock.  This  was  his  proudest 
function.  Giving  a  glance  at  the  sun,  to  ascertain 
the  time  more  or  less  nearly,  he  would  climb  to 
the  top  of  the  steeple,  open  a  huge  cage  of  rafters, 
and  find  himself  in  a  maze  of  wheels  and  springs 
whereof  the  secret  was  known  to  him  alone. 
34 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

In  this  picture  of  the  schoolmaster  and 
the  school  we  have  lost  sight  for  a  time  of 
our  little  Jean-Henri.  What  becomes  of 
him?  What  does  he  do  in  such  a  school, 
under  such  a  master?  To  begin  with,  no 
one  takes  a  greater  interest  in  the  visits  of 
hens  and  piglings,  no  one  appreciates  more 
keenly  the  delights  of  school  in  the  open  air. 
In  the  meanwhile,  his  love  of  plants  and  ani- 
mals finds  expression  in  all  directions,  even 
on  the  cover  of  his  penny  spelling-book: 

Embellished  with  a  crude  picture  of  a  pigeon 
which  I  study  and  contemplate  much  more  zeal- 
ously than  the  A,  B,  C.  Its  round  eye,  with  its 
circlet  of  dots,  seems  to  smile  upon  me.  Its  wing, 
of  which  I  count  the  feathers  one  by  one,  tells 
me  of  flights  on  high,  among  the  beautiful  clouds; 
it  carries  me  to  the  beeches,  raising  their  smooth 
trunks  above  a  mossy  carpet  studded  with  white 
mushrooms  that  look  like  eggs  dropped  by  some 
vagrant  hen;  it  takes  me  to  the  snow-clad  peaks 
where  the  birds  leave  the  starry  print  of  their 
red  feet.  He  is  a  fine  fellow,  my  pigeon-friend: 
he  consoles  me  for  the  woes  hidden  behind  the 
cover  of  my  book.  Thanks  to  him,  I  sit  quietly 
on  my  bench  and  wait  more  or  less  till  school 
is  over. 

School  out  of  doors  has  other  charms.  When 
the  master  takes  us  to  kill  the  snails  in  the  box 
borders,  I  do  not  always  scrupulously  fulfil  my 

35 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

office  as  exterminator.  My  heel  sometimes  hesi- 
tates before  coming  down  upon  the  handful  which 
I  have  gathered.  They  are  so  pretty!  Just  think, 
there  are  yellow  ones  and  pink,  white  ones  and 
brown,  all  with  dark  spiral  streaks.  I  fill  my 
pockets  with  the  handsomest  so  as  to  feast  my 
eyes  upon  them  at  my  leisure. 

On  haymaking  days  in  the  master's  field,  I  strike 
up  an  acquaintance  with  the  Frog.  Flayed  and 
stuck  at  the  end  of  a  split  stick,  he  serves  as  live 
bait  to  tempt  the  Crayfish  from  his  retreat  by  the 
edge  of  the  brook.  On  the  alder-tree  I  catch  the 
Hoplia,  the  splendid  Beetle  who  pales  the  azure 
of  the  heavens.  I  pick  the  narcissus  and  learn 
to  gather,  with  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  the  tiny 
drops  of  honey  that  lie  right  at  the  bottom  of 
the  cleft  corolla.  I  also  learn  that  too-long  in- 
dulgence in  this  quest  always  brings  a  headache; 
but  this  discomfort  in  no  way  impairs  my  admira- 
tion for  the  glorious  white  flower,  which  wears 
a  narrow  red  collar  at  the  throat  of  its  funnel. 
When  we  go  to  beat  the  walnut-trees,  the  barren 
grass-plots  provide  me  with  Locusts,  spreading  their 
wings,  some  into  a  blue  fan,  others  into  a  red. 

And  thus  the  rustic  school,  even  in  the  heart 
of  winter,  furnished  continuous  food  for  my  inter- 
est in  things. 

But  while  the  love  of  plants  and  animals 
developed  automatically,  without  guide  or  ex- 
ample, in  the  child  predestined  to  entomology, 
36 


The  Schoolboy:    Samt-Leons 

there  was  one  respect  in  which  he  did  not 
make  progress:  the  knowledge  of  the  alpha- 
bet, which  was  indeed  neglected  for  the 
pigeon.  Consequently  neither  the  school- 
master nor  the  spelling-book  had  much  to  do 
with  the  earliest  stage  of  his  education.  He 
tells  us  how  he  learned  to  read,  not  at  Mas- 
ter Ricard's,  but,  thanks  to  his  father,  in  the 
school  of  the  animals  and  nature: 

I  was  still  at  the  same  stage,  hopelessly  behind- 
hand with  the  intractable  alphabet,  when  my  father, 
by  a  chance  inspiration,  brought  me  home  from  the 
town  what  was  destined  to  give  me  a  start  along 
the  road  of  reading.  Despite  the  not  insignificant 
part  which  it  played  in  my  intellectual  awakening, 
the  purchase  was  by  no  means  a  ruinous  one.  It 
was  a  large  print,  price  six  farthings,  coloured  and 
divided  into  compartments  in  which  animals  of  all 
sorts  taught  the  A,  B,  C  by  means  of  the  first 
letters  of  their  names. 

I  made  such  rapid  progress  that,  in  a  few  days, 
I  was  able  to  turn  in  good  earnest  to  the  pages 
of  my  little  pigeon-book,  hitherto  so  undecipher- 
able. I  was  initiated ;  I  knew  how  to  spell.  My 
parents  marvelled.  I  can  explain  this  unexpected 
progress  to-day.  Those  speaking  pictures,  which 
brought  me  among  my  friends  the  beasts,  were 
in  harmony  with  my  instincts.  If  the  animal  has 
not  fulfilled  all  that  it  promised  in  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  I  have  at  least  to  thank  it  for  teach- 
37 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

ing  me  to  read.  I  should  have  succeeded  by  other 
means,  I  do  not  doubt,  but  not  so  quickly  or  pleas- 
antly. Animals  for  ever! 

Luck  favoured  me  a  second  time.  As  a  reward 
for  my  prowess  I  was  given  La  Fontaine's  Fables, 
in  a  popular,  cheap  edition,  crammed  with  pic- 
tures, small,  I  admit,  and  very  inaccurate,  but 
still  delightful.  Here  were  the  crow,  the  fox,  the 
wolf,  the  magpie,  the  frog,  the  rabbit,  the  ass,  the 
dog,  the  cat;  all  persons  of  my  acquaintance.  The 
glorious  book  was  immensely  to  my  taste,  with  its 
skimpy  illustrations  in  which  the  animal  walked 
and  talked.  As  to  understanding  what  it  said, 
that  was  another  story.  Never  mind,  my  lad! 
Put  together  syllables  that  say  nothing  to  you  yet; 
they  will  speak  to  you  later  and  La  Fontaine  will 
always  remain  your  friend.1 

1  Souvenirs,  iv.,  pp.  50-60 ;  The  Life  of  the  Fly.,  chap. 
vi.,  "  My  Schooling." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SCHOOLBOY:    SAINT-LEONS 

know  a  pupil  thoroughly,  it  is  not 
enough  to  study  him  in  class;  one  must 
watch  him  at  play,  for  it  is  then  especially 
that  his  nascent  tastes  reveal  themselves,  and 
the  outlines  of  his  future  personality  are 
more  plainly  discerned. 

We  have  seen  Jean-Henri  bending  over 
his  task  under  the  eye  of  the  schoolmaster, 
or  of  his  father;  now  let  us  follow  him  in 
the  free  play  of  his  activities,  absorbed  in 
intimate  communion  with  the  children  of  na- 
ture. He  himself  will  tell  us  what  were  his 
favourite  pastimes  in  the  garden,  by  the  pond, 
or  in  the  fields. 

All  the  reminiscences  of  the  little  Jean- 
Henri's  schooldays  pall  before  the  memory 
of  his  father's  garden: 

A  tiny  hanging  garden  of  some  thirty  paces  by 
ten,  situated  right  at  the  top  of  the  village.  The 
only  spot  that  overlooks  it  is  a  little  esplanade  on 
which  stands  the  old  castle  x  with  the  four  turrets 

1  The  Chateau  de  Saint-Leons  standing  just  outside 
and  above  the  village  of  Saint-Leons,  where  the  author 

39 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

that  have  now  become  dovecotes.  A  steep  path 
takes  you  up  to  this  open  space.  From  my  house 
on,  it  is  more  like  a  precipice  than  a  slope.  Gar- 
dens buttressed  by  walls  are  staged  in  terraces  on 
the  sides  of  the  funnel-shaped  valley.  Ours  is  the 
highest;  it  is  also  the  smallest. 

There  are  no  trees.  Even  a  solitary  apple-tree 
would  crowd  it.  There  is  a  patch  of  cabbages, 
with  a  border  of  sorrel,  a  patch  of  turnips,  and  an- 
other of  lettuces.  That  is  all  we  have  in  the  way 
of  garden-stuff;  there  is  no  room  for  more. 
Against  the  upper  supporting-wall,  facing  due 
south,  is  a  vine-arbour  which,  at  intervals,  when 
the  sun  is  generous,  provides  half  a  basketful  of 
white  muscatel  grapes.  These  are  a  luxury  of 
our  own,  greatly  envied  by  the  neighbours,  for 
the  vine  is  unknown  outside  this  corner,  the  warm- 
est in  the  village. 

A  hedge  of  currant-bushes,  the  only  safeguard 
against  a  terrible  fall,  forms  a  parapet  above  the 
next  terrace.  When  our  parents'  watchful  eyes 
are  off  us,  we  lie  flat  on  our  stomachs,  my  brother 1 
and  I,  and  look  into  the  abyss  at  the  foot  of  the 
wall  bulging  under  the  thrust  of  the  soil.  It  is 
the  garden  of  monsieur  le  notaire. 

There  are  beds  with  box-borders  in  that  gar- 
was  born  in  1823.  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chaps,  vi.  and 
vii.— A.  T.  DE  M. 

1  The  brother  whom  Fabre  here  associates  with  the 
memories  of  his  childhood  has  also  proved  a  credit  to 
his  name  and  his  vocation.  M.  Frederic  Fabre  is  to-day 
Director  of  the  Crillon  Canal  and  assistant  justice  for 
the  southern  canton  of  Avignon. 
40 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

den ;  there  are  pear-trees  reputed  to  give  pears,  real 
pears,  more  or  less  good  to  eat  when  they  have 
ripened  on  the  straw  all  through  the  late  autumn. 
In  our  imagination,  it  is  a  spot  of  perpetual  de- 
light, a  paradise,  but  a  paradise  seen  the  wrong 
way  up:  instead  of  contemplating  it  from  below, 
we  gaze  at  it  from  above.  How  happy  they  must 
be  with  so  much  space  and  all  those  pears! 

We  look  at  the  hives,  around  which  the  hover- 
ing Bees  make  a  sort  of  russet  smoke.  They  stand 
under  the  shelter  of  a  great  hazel.  The  tree  has 
sprung  up  all  of  itself  in  a  fissure  of  the  wall, 
almost  on  the  level  of  our  currant-bushes.  While 
it  spreads  its  mighty  branches  over  the  notary's 
hives,  its  roots,  at  least,  are  in  our  soil.  It  be- 
longs to  us.  The  trouble  is  to  gather  the  nuts. 

I  creep  along  astride  the  strong  branches  pro- 
jecting horizontally  into  space.  If  I  slip,  or  if  the 
support  breaks,  I  shall  come  to  grief  in  the  midst 
of  the  angry  Bees.  I  do  not  slip,  and  the  support 
does  not  break.  With  the  crooked  stick  which 
my  brother  hands  me,  I  bring  the  finest  clusters 
within  my  reach.  I  soon  fill  my  pockets.  Mov- 
ing backwards,  still  straddling  my  branch,  I  re- 
cover terra  firma.  O  wondrous  days  of  litheness 
and  assurance,  when,  for  a  few  filberts,  on  a  per- 
ilous perch  we  braved  the  abyss ! 1 

I  confess  I  love  this  little  sketch  of  the 
garden,  which  gives  evidence  of  a  singular 

1  Souvenirs,  vin.,  pp.  126,  127 ;  Bramble-Bees,  chap, 
xiii,  "The  Halicti." 

41 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

clearness  of  perception  in  the  gaze  which  this 
child  already  turns  upon  the  things  about 
him. 

But  I  like  still  better  the  history  of  the 
duck-pond,  graceful  as  an  idyll  and  touching 
as  an  elegy,  the  idyll  of  a  rustic  childhood 
which  becomes  aware,  simultaneously,  of  the 
family  secrets  and  the  secrets  of  nature;  the 
elegy  of  a  father's  tenderness  and  a  son's 
piety  cramped  and  mortified  by  poverty,  the 
elegy  of  intelligence,  nay,  of  genius,  ready 
to  spread  its  wings  and  fettered  in  its  flight 
by  the  heavy  chains  and  harsh  necessities 
of  material  existence : 

How  shall  a  man  earn  his  living  in  my  poor 
native  village,  with  its  inclement  weather  and  its 
niggardly  soil?  The  owner  of  a  few  acres  of 
grazing-land  rears  sheep.  In  the  best  parts,  he 
scrapes  the  soil  with  the  swing-plough ;  he  flattens 
it  into  terraces  banked  by  walls  of  broken  stones. 
Pannierfuls  of  dung  are  carried  up  on  donkey- 
back  from  the  cowshed.  Then,  in  due  season, 
comes  the  excellent  potato,  which,  boiled  and 
served  hot  in  a  basket  of  plaited  straw,  is  the 
chief  stand-by  in  winter. 

Should  the  crop  exceed  the  needs  of  the  house- 
hold, the  surplus  goes  to  feed  a  pig,  that  precious 
beast,  a  treasure  of  bacon  and  ham.  The  ewes 
supply  butter  and  curds;  the  garden  boasts  cab- 
bages, turnips,  and  even  a  few  hives  in  a  sheltered 
42 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

corner.  With  wealth  like  that  one  can  look  fate 
in  the  face.  But  we,  we  have  nothing,  nothing 
but  the  little  house  inherited  by  my  mother,  and 
its  adjoining  patch  of  garden.  The  meagre  re- 
sources of  the  family  are  coming  to  an  end.  It  is 
time  to  see  to  it,  and  that  quickly.  What  is  to 
be  done?  That  is  the  stern  question  which  father 
and  mother  sat  debating  one  evening. 

Hop-o'-my-Thumb,  hiding  under  the  woodcut- 
ter's stool,  listened  to  his  parents  overcome  by  want. 
I  also,  pretending  to  sleep,  with  my  elbows  on 
the  table,  listen,  not  to  blood-curdling  designs,  but 
to  grand  plans  that  set  my  heart  rejoicing.  This 
is  how  the  matter  stands:  at  the  bottom  of  the 
village,  near  the  church,  at  the  spot  where  the 
water  of  the  large  roofed  spring  escapes  from  its 
underground  weir  and  joins  the  brook  in  the  val- 
ley, an  enterprising  man,  back  from  the  war,1  has 
set  up  a  small  tallow-factory.  He  sells  the  scrap- 
ings of  his  pans,  the  burnt  fat,  reeking  of  candle- 
grease,  at  a  low  price.  He  proclaims  these  wares 
to  be  excellent  for  fattening  ducks. 

"  Suppose  we  breed  some  ducks,"  says  mother. 
"  They  sell  very  well  in  town.  Henri  would  mind 
them  and  take  them  down  to  the  brook." 

"  Very  well,"  says  father,  "  let's  breed  some  ducks. 
There  may  be  difficulties  in  the  way;  but  we'll 
have  a  try." 

That  night  I  had  dreams  of  paradise:  I  was 
with  my  ducklings,  clad  in  their  yellow  suits;  I 

iThe  war  of  1830  with  Algiers.— A.  T.  DE  M. 

43 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

took  them  to  the  pond,  I  watched  them  have  their 
bath,  I  brought  them  back  again,  carrying  the  more 
tired  ones  in  a  basket. 

A  month  or  two  after,  the  little  birds  of  my 
dreams  were  a  reality.  There  were  twenty-four 
of  them.  They  had  been  hatched  by  two  hens,  of 
whom  one,  the  big  black  one,  was  an  inmate  of 
the  house,  while  the  other  was  borrowed  from 
a  neighbour. 

To  bring  them  up,  the  former  is  sufficient,  so 
careful  is  she  of  her  adopted  family.  At  first 
everything  goes  perfectly:  a  tub  with  two  fingers' 
depth  of  water  serves  as  a  pond.  On  sunny  days 
the  ducklings  bathe  in  it  under  the  anxious  eye 
of  the  hen. 

A  fortnight  later,  the  tub  is  no  longer  enough. 
It  contains  neither  cresses  crammed  with  tiny  Shell- 
fish nor  Worms  and  Tadpoles,  dainty  morsels  both. 
The  time  has  come  for  dives  and  hunts  amid  the 
tangle  of  the  water-weeds;  and  for  us  the  day 
of  trouble  has  also  come.  True,  the  miller,  down 
by  the  brook,  has  fine  ducks,  easy  and  cheap  to 
rear ;  the  tallow-smelter,  who  has  extolled  his  burnt 
fat  so  loudly,  has  some  as  well,  for  he  possesses 
the  advantage  of  the  waste  water  from  the  spring 
at  the  bottom  of  the  village;  but  how  are  we, 
right  up  there,  at  the  top,  to  procure  aquatic  sports 
for  our  broods?  In  summer  we  have  hardly  water 
to  drink! 

Near  the  house,  in  a  freestone  recess,  a  scanty 
spring  trickles  into  a  basin  made  in  the  rock.  Four 
or  five  families  have,  like  ourselves,  to  draw  their 
44 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

water  there  in  copper  pails.  By  the  time  that  the 
schoolmaster's  donkey  has  slaked  her  thirst  and  the 
neighbours  have  taken  their  provision  for  the  day, 
the  basin  is  dry.  We  have  to  wait  for  four-and- 
twenty  hours  for  it  to  fill.  No,  this  is  not  the 
hole  in  which  the  ducks  would  delight,  nor  in- 
deed in  which  they  would  be  tolerated. 

There  remains  the  brook.  To  go  down  to  it 
with  the  troop  of  ducklings  is  fraught  with  danger. 
On  the  way  through  the  village  we  might  meet 
cats,  bold  ravishers  of  small  poultry;  some  surly 
mongrel  might  frighten  and  scatter  the  little  band; 
and  it  would  be  a  hard  puzzle  to  collect  it  in  its 
entirety,  We  must  avoid  the  traffic  and  take  refuge 
in  peaceful  and  sequestered  spots. 

On  the  hills,  the  path  that  climbs  behind  the 
chateau  soon  takes  a  sudden  turn  and  widens  into 
a  small  plain  beside  the  meadows.  It  skirts  a 
rocky  slope  whence  trickles,  level  with  the  ground, 
a  streamlet,  which  forms  a  pond  of  some  size. 
Here  profound  solitude  reigns  all  day  long.  The 
ducklings  will  be  well  off;  and  the  journey  can 
be  made  in  peace  by  a  deserted  footpath. 

You,  little  man,  shall  take  them  to  that  delect- 
able spot.  What  a  day  it  was  that  marked  my 
first  appearance  as  a  herdsman  of  ducks!  Why 
must  there  be  a  jar  to  the  even  tenor  of  such  joys! 
The  too-frequent  encounter  of  my  tender  skin  with 
the  hard  ground  had  given  me  a  large  and  pain- 
ful blister  on  the  heel.  Had  I  wanted  to  put  on 
the  shoes  stowed  away  in  the  cupboard  for  Sun- 
days and  holidays,  I  could  not.  There  was  noth- 

45 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

ing  for  it  but  to  go  barefoot  over  the  broken 
stones,  dragging  my  leg  and  carrying  high  the  in- 
jured heel. 

Let  us  make  a  start,  hobbling  along,  switch  in 
hand,  behind  the  ducks.  They,  too,  poor  little 
things,  have  sensitive  soles  to  their  feet;  they  limp, 
they  quack  with  fatigue.  They  would  refuse  to 
go  any  further  if  I  did  not,  from  time  to  time, 
call  a  halt  under  the  shelter  of  an  ash. 

We  are  there  at  last.  The  place  could  not  be 
better  for  my  birdlets:  shallow,  tepid  water,  inter- 
spersed with  muddy  knolls  and  green  eyots.  The 
diversions  of  the  bath  begin  forthwith.  The  duck- 
lings clap  their  beaks  and  rummage  here,  there, 
and  everywhere.  They  are  happy;  and  it  is  a 
blessed  thing  to  see  them  at  work.  We  will  let 
them  be.  It  is  my  turn  to  enjoy  the  pond. 

What  is  this?  On  the  mud  lie  some  loose, 
knotted,  soot-coloured  cords.  One  might  take  them 
for  threads  of  wool  like  those  which  you  pull  out 
of  an  old  ravelly  stocking.  Can  some  shepherdess, 
knitting  a  black  sock  and  finding  her  work  turn 
out  badly,  have  begun  all  over  again  and,  in  her 
impatience,  have  thrown  down  the  wool  with  all 
the  dropped  stitches?  It  really  looks  like  it. 

I  take  up  one  of  those  cords  in  my  hand.  It 
is  sticky  and  extremely  slack;  the  thing  slips 
through  the  fingers  before  they  can  catch  hold  of 
it.  A  few  of  the  knots  burst  and  shed  their  con- 
tents. What  comes  out  is  a  black  globule,  the 
size  of  a  pin's  head,  followed  by  a  flat  tail.  I 
recognise,  on  a  very  small  scale,  a  familiar  object: 
46 


The  Schoolboy :    Saint-Leons 

the  Tadpole,  the  Frog's  baby.  I  have  seen  enough. 
Let  us  leave  the  knotted  cords  alone. 

The  next  creatures  please  me  better.  They  spin 
round  on  the  surface  of  the  water  and  their  black 
backs  gleam  in  the  sun.  If  I  lift  a  hand  to  seize 
them,  that  moment  they  disappear,  I  know  not 
where.  It's  a  pity:  I  should  have  much  liked  to 
see  them  closer  and  to  make  them  wriggle  in  a 
little  bowl  which  I  should  have  put  ready  for 
them. 

Let  us  look  at  the  bottom  of  the  water,  pull- 
ing aside  those  bunches  of  green  string  whence 
beads  of  air  are  rising  and  gathering  into  foam. 
There  is  something  of  everything  underneath.  I 
see  pretty  shells  with  compact  whorls,  flat  as  beans ; 
I  notice  little  worms  carrying  tufts  and  feathers; 
I  make  out  some  with  flabby  fins  constantly  flap- 
ping on  their  backs.  What  are  they  all  doing 
there?  What  are  their  names?  I  do  not  know. 
And  I  stare  at  them  for  ever  so  long,  held  by 
the  incomprehensible  mystery  of  the  waters. 

At  the  place  where  the  pond  dribbles  into  the 
adjoining  field  are  some  alder-trees;  and  here  I 
make  a  glorious  find.  It  is  a  Beetle — not  a  very 
large  one,  oh  no!  He  is  smaller  than  a  cherry- 
stone, but  of  an  unutterable  blue.  I  put  the 
glorious  one  inside  an  empty  snail-shell,  which  I 
plug  up  with  a  leaf.  I  shall  admire  that  living 
jewel  at  my  leisure,  when  I  get  back.  Other  dis- 
tractions summon  me  away. 

The  spring  that  feeds  the  pond  trickles  from 
the  rock,  cold  and  clear.  The  water  first  collects 
47 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

into  a  cup,  the  size  of  the  hollow  of  one's  two 
hands,  and  then  runs  over  in  a  stream.  These 
falls  call  for  a  mill:  that  goes  without  saying. 
Two  bits  of  straw,  artistically  crossed  upon  an  axis, 
provide  the  machine;  some  flat  stones  set  on  edge 
afford  supports.  It  is  a  great  success:  the  mill 
turns  admirably.  My  triumph  would  be  complete, 
could  I  but  share  it.  For  want  of  other  play- 
mates, I  invite  the  ducks. 

Everything  palls  in  this  poor  world  of  ours, 
even  a  mill  made  of  two  straws.  Let  us  think 
of  something  else;  let  us  contrive  a  dam  to  hold 
back  the  waters  and  form  a  pool.  There  is  no 
lack  of  stones  for  the  brickwork.  I  pick  the  most 
suitable;  I  break  the  larger  ones.  And,  while  col- 
lecting these  blocks,  suddenly  I  forget  all  about 
the  dam  which  I  meant  to  build. 

On  one  of  the  broken  stones,  in  a  cavity  large 
enough  for  me  to  put  my  fist  in,  something  gleams 
like  glass.  The  hollow  is  lined  with  facets  gath- 
ered in  sixes  which  flash  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 
I  have  seen  something  like  this  in  church,  on  the 
great  saint's  day,  when  the  light  of  the  candles 
in  the  big  chandelier  kindles  the  stars  in  its  hang- 
ing crystal. 

We  children,  lying,  in  summer,  on  the  straw 
of  the  threshing-floor,  have  told  one  another  stories 
of  the  treasures  which  a  dragon  guards  under- 
ground. Those  treasures  now  return  to  my  mind: 
the  names  of  precious  stones  ring  out  uncertainly 
but  gloriously  in  my  memory.  I  think  of  the  king's 
crown,  of  the  princesses'  necklaces.  In  breaking 
48 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

stones,  can  I  have  found,  but  on  a  much  richer 
scale,  the  thing  that  shines  quite  small  in  my 
mother's  ring?  I  want  more  such. 

The  dragon  of  the  subterranean  treasures  treats 
me  generously.  He  gives  me  his  diamonds  in  such 
quantities  that  soon  I  possess  a  heap  of  broken  stones 
sparkling  with  magnificent  clusters.  He  does  more : 
he  gives  me  his  gold.  The  water  from  the  rock 
falls  on  a  bed  of  fine  sand  which  it  swirls  into 
bubbles.  If  I  bend  towards  the  light,  I  see  some- 
thing like  gold-filings  whirl  where  the  fall  touches 
the  bottom.  Is  it  really  the  famous  metal  of 
which  twenty-franc  pieces,  so  rare  with  us  at  home, 
are  made?  One  would  think  so,  from  the  glitter. 

I  take  a  pinch  of  sand  and  place  it  in  my  palm. 
The  brilliant  particles  are  numerous,  but  so  small 
that  I  have  to  pick  them  up  with  a  straw  moistened 
in  my  mouth.  Let  us  drop  this:  they  are  too  tiny 
and  too  bothersome  to  collect.  The  big,  valuable 
lumps  must  be  farther  on,  in  the  thickness  of  the 
rock.  We'll  come  back  later;  we'll  blast  the 
mountain. 

I  break  more  stones.  Oh,  what  a  queer  thing 
has  just  come  loose,  all  in  one  piece!  It  is  turned 
spiral-wise,  like  certain  flat  Snails  that  come  out 
of  the  cracks  of  old  walls  in  rainy  weather.  With 
its  gnarled  sides,  it  looks  like  a  little  ram's-horn. 
Shell  or  horn,  it  is  very  curious.  How  do  things 
like  that  find  their  way  into  the  stone? 

Treasures  and  curiosities  make  my  pockets  bulge 
with  pebbles.  It  is  late,  and  the  little  ducklings 
have  had  all  they  want  to  eat.  Come  along,  young- 

49 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

sters,  let's  go  home.  My  blistered  heel  is  for- 
gotten in  my  excitement. 

The  walk  back  is  a  delight.  A  voice  sings  in 
my  ear,  an  untranslatable  voice,  softer  than  any 
language  and  bewildering  as  a  dream.  It  speaks 
to  me  for  the  first  time  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
pond;  it  glorifies  the  heavenly  insect  which  I  hear 
moving  in  the  empty  snail-shell,  its  temporary  cage ; 
it  whispers  the  secrets  of  the  rock,  the  gold-filings, 
the  faceted  jewels,  the  ram's-horn  turned  to  stone. 

Poor  simpleton,  smother  your  joy!  I  arrive. 
My  parents  catch  sight  of  my  bulging  pockets, 
with  their  disgraceful  load  of  stones.  The  cloth 
has  given  way  under  the  rough  and  heavy  burden. 

"  You  rascal !  "  says  father,  at  sight  of  the  dam- 
age. "  I  send  you  to  mind  the  ducks  and  you 
amuse  yourself  picking  up  stones,  as  though  there 
weren't  enough  of  them  all  round  the  house !  Make 
haste  and  throw  them  away !  " 

Broken-hearted,  I  obey.  Diamonds,  gold-dust, 
petrified  ram's-horn,  heavenly  Beetle  are  all  flung 
on  a  rubbish-heap  outside  the  door. 

Mother  bewails   her  lot: 

"  A  nice  thing,  bringing  up  children  to  see  them 
turn  out  so  badly!  You'll  bring  me  to  my  grave. 
Green  stuff  I  don't  mind:  it  does  for  the  rabbits. 
But  stones,  which  ruin  your  pockets;  poisonous 
animals,  which'll  sting  your  hand :  what  good  are 
they  to  you,  silly?  There's  no  doubt  about  it: 
some  one  has  thrown  a  spell  over  you !  " 

Yes,  my  poor  mother,  you  were  right,  in  your 
simplicity:  a  spell  had  been  cast  upon  me;  I  ad- 
50 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

mit  it  to-day.  When  it  is  hard  enough  to  earn 
one's  bit  of  bread,  does  not  improving  one's  mind 
but  render  one  more  meet  for  suffering?  Of  what 
avail  is  the  torment  of  learning  to  the  derelicts 
of  life? 

A  deal  better  off  am  I,  at  this  late  hour,  dogged 
by  poverty  and  knowing  that  the  diamonds  of  the 
duck-pool  were  rock-crystal,  the  gold-dust  mica, 
the  stone  horn  an  Ammonite,  and  the  sky-blue  Bee- 
tle a  Hoplia!  We  poor  men  would  do  better  to 
mistrust  the  joys  of  knowledge :  let  us  dig  our  fur- 
row in  the  field  of  the  commonplace,  flee  the 
temptations  of  the  pond,  mind  our  ducks  and  leave 
to  others,  more  favoured  by  fortune,  the  job  of 
explaining  the  world's  mechanism,  if  the  spirit 
moves  them. 

And  yet  no!  Alone  among  living  creatures  man 
has  the  thirst  for  knowledge;  he  alone  pries  into 
the  mysteries  of  things.  The  least  among  us  will 
utter  his  whys  and  his  wherefores,  a  fine  pain  un- 
known to  the  brute  beast.  If  these  questionings 
come  from  us  with  greater  persistence,  with  a  more 
imperious  authority,  if  they  divert  us  from  the 
quest  of  lucre,  life's  only  object  in  the  eyes  of 
most  men,  does  it  behove  us  to  complain  ?  Let  us 
be  careful  not  to  do  so,  for  that  would  be  deny- 
ing the  best  of  all  our  gifts. 

Let  us  strive,  on  the  contrary,  within  the  meas- 
ure of  our  capacity,  to  force  a  gleam  of  light  from 
the  vast  unknown ;  let  us  examine  and  question 
and,  here  and  there,  wrest  a  few  shreds  of  truth. 
We  shall  sink  under  the  task;  in  the  present  ill- 
51 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

ordered  state  of  society,  we  shall  end,  perhaps, 
in  the  workhouse.  Let  us  go  ahead  for  all  that: 
our  consolation  shall  be  that  we  have  increased 
by  one  atom  the  general  mass  of  knowledge,  the 
incomparable  treasure  of  mankind. 

As  this  modest  lot  has  fallen  to  me,  I  will  re- 
turn to  the  pond,  notwithstanding  the  wise  admoni- 
tions and  the  bitter  tears  which  I  once  owed  to 
it.  I  will  return  to  the  pond,  but  not  to  that  of 
the  small  ducks,  the  pond  aflower  with  illusions: 
those  ponds  do  not  occur  twice  in  a  lifetime.  For 
luck  like  that,  you  must  be  in  all  the  new  glory 
of  your  first  breeches  and  your  first  ideas. 

Many  another  have  I  come  upon  since  that  dis- 
tant time,  ponds  very  much  richer  and,  moreover, 
explored  with  the  ripened  eye  of  experience.  En- 
thusiastically I  searched  them  with  the  net,  stirred 
up  their  mud,  ransacked  their  trailing  weeds.  None 
in  my  memories  comes  up  to  the  first,  magnified  in 
its  delights  and  mortifications  by  the  marvellous 
perspective  of  the  years.1 

His  excursions  to  the  pond  and  the  garden 
were  little  more  to  our  little  Jean-Henri  than 
the  preface  to  rather  more  distant  excursions 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Saint-Leons.  The 
edge  of  the  brook,  the  crest  of  the  hill  and 
the  skirts  of  the  beechwood  which  limit  his 
horizon  are  the  chosen  spots  to  which  his 

1  Souvenirs,  pp.  260-270.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap. 
vii.,  "The  Pond." 

52 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

curiosity  leads  him,  and  the  favourite  scene 
of  his  childish  rambles.  It  is  really  delight- 
ful to  watch  him  taking  possession  of  these 
unknown  territories  and  making  the  first  in- 
ventory of  the  wealth  that  he  will  explore 
later  on. 

On  that  day,  wealthy  and  leisured,  with  an  ap- 
ple for  my  lunch  and  all  my  time  to  myself,  I 
decided  to  visit  the  brown  of  the  neighbouring  hill, 
hitherto  looked  upon  as  the  boundary  of  the  world. 
Right  at  the  top  is  a  row  of  trees  which,  turning 
their  backs  to  the  wind,  bend  and  toss  about  as 
though  to  uproot  themselves  and  take  to  flight. 
How  often,  from  the  little  window  in  my  home, 
have  I  not  seen  them  bowing  their  heads  in  stormy 
weather ;  how  often  have  I  not  watched  them  writh- 
ing like  madmen  amid  the  snow-dust  which  the 
north-wind's  besom  raises  and  smooths  along  the 
hill-side!  What  are  they  doing  up  there,  those 
desolate  trees?  I  am  interested  in  their  supple 
backs,  to-day  still  and  upright  against  the  blue  of 
the  sky,  to-morrow  shaken  when  the  clouds  pass 
overhead.  I  am  gladdened  by  their  calmness;  I 
am  distressed  by  their  terrified  gestures.  They  are 
my  friends.  I  have  them  before  my  eyes  at  every 
hour  of  the  day.  In  the  morning  the  sun  rises 
behind  their  transparent  screen  and  ascends  in  its 
glory.  Where  does  it  come  from?  I  am  going 
to  climb  up  there;  and  perhaps  I  shall  find  out. 

I    mount   the   slope.      It   is   a   lean   grass-sward 

53 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

close-cropped  by  the  sheep.  It  has  no  bushes,  fer- 
tile in  rents  and  tears,  for  which  I  should  have 
to  answer  on  returning  home,  nor  any  rocks,  the 
scaling  of  which  involves  like  dangers;  nothing  but 
large,  flat  stones,  scattered  here  and  there.  I  have 
only  to  go  straight  on,  over  smooth  ground.  But 
the  sward  is  as  steep  as  a  sloping  roof.  It  is  long, 
ever  so  long;  and  my  legs  are  very  short.  From 
time  to  time  I  look  up.  My  friends,  the  trees 
on  the  hill-top,  seem  to  be  no  nearer.  Cheerly, 
sonnie!  Scramble  away! 

What  is  this  at  my  feet?  A  lovely  bird  has 
flown  from  its  hiding-place  under  the  eaves  of  a 
big  stone.  Bless  us,  here's  a  nest  made  of  hair 
and  fine  straw!  It's  the  first  I  have  ever  found, 
the  first  of  the  joys  which  the  birds  are  to  bring 
me.  And  in  this  nest  are  six  eggs,  laid  prettily 
side  by  side;  and  these  eggs  are  a  magnificent  blue, 
as  though  steeped  in  a  dye  of  celestial  azure.  Over- 
powered with  happiness,  I  lie  down  on  the  grass 
and  stare. 

Meanwhile  the  mother,  with  a  little  clap  of 
her  gullet — "  Tack !  Tack !  " — flies  anxiously  from 
stone  to  stone,  not  far  from  the  intruder.  My  age 
knows  no  pity,  is  still  too  barbarous  to  understand 
maternal  anguish.  A  plan  is  running  in  my  head, 
a  plan  worthy  of  a  little  beast  of  prey.  I  will 
come  back  in  a  fortnight  and  collect  the  nestlings 
before  they  can  fly  away.  In  the  meantime,  I  will 
just  take  one  of  those  pretty  blue  eggs,  only  one, 
as  a  trophy.  Lest  it  should  be  crushed,  I  place 
the  fragile  thing  on  a  little  moss  in  the  scoop  of 
54 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

my  hand.  Let  him  cast  a  stone  at  me  that  has 
not,  in  his  childhood,  known  the  rapture  of  finding 
his  first  nest. 

My  delicate  burden,  which  would  be  ruined  by 
a  false  step,  makes  me  give  up  the  remainder  of 
the  climb.  Some  other  day  I  shall  see  the  trees 
on  the  hill-top  over  which  the  sun  rises.  I  go 
down  the  slope  again.  At  the  bottom  I  meet  the 
parish  priest's  curate  reading  his  breviary  as  he 
takes  his  walk.  He  sees  me  coming  solemnly  along, 
like  a  relic-bearer;  he  catches  sight  of  my  hand 
hiding  something  behind  my  back: 

"  What  have  you  there,  my  boy  ?  "  he  asks. 

All  abashed,  I  open  my  hand  and  show  my  blue 
egg  on  its  bed  of  moss. 

"Ah!"  says  his  reverence.  "A  Saxicola's  egg! 
Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Up  there,  father,  under  a  stone." 

Question  follows  question;  and  my  peccadillo 
stands  confessed.  "  By  chance  I  found  a  nest 
which  I  was  not  looking  for.  There  were  six 
eggs  in  it.  I  took  one  of  them — here  it  is — and 
I  am  waiting  for  the  rest  to  hatch.  I  shall  go 
back  for  the  others  when  the  young  birds  have 
their  quill-feathers." 

"  You  mustn't  do  that,  my  little  friend,"  replies 
the  priest.  "You  mustn't  rob  the  mother  of  her 
brood;  you  must  respect  the  innocent  little  ones; 
you  must  let  God's  birds  grow  up  and  fly  from 
the  nest.  They  are  the  joy  of  the  fields,  and  they 
clear  the  earth  of  its  vermin.  Be  a  good  boy,  now, 
and  don't  touch  the  nest." 

55 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

I  promise;  and  the  curate  continues  his  walk. 
I  come  home  with  two  good  seeds  cast  on  the  fal- 
lows of  my  childish  brain.  An  authoritative  word 
has  taught  me  that  plundering  birds'  nests  is  a  bad 
action.  I  did  not  quite  understand  how  the  bird 
comes  to  our  aid  by  destroying  vermin,  the  scourge 
of  the  crops;  but  I  felt,  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
that  it  is  wrong  to  afflict  the  mothers. 

"  Saxicola,"  the  priest  had  said,  on  seeing  my 
find. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  I  to  myself.  "  Animals  have 
names,  just  like  ourselves.  Who  named  them? 
What  are  all  my  different  acquaintances  in  the 
woods  and  meadows  called?  What  does  Saxicola 
mean  ?  " 

Years  passed;  and  Latin  taught  me  that  Saxi- 
cola means  an  inhabitant  of  the  rocks.  My  bird, 
in  fact,  was  flying  from  one  rocky  point  to  the 
other  while  I  lay  in  ecstasy  before  its  eggs ;  its 
house,  its  nest,  had  the  rim  of  a  large  stone  for  a 
roof.  Further  knowledge  gleaned  from  books 
taught  me  that  the  lover  of  stony  hill-sides  is  also 
called  the  Motteux,  or  Clodhopper,1  because,  in  the 
ploughing  season,  she  flies  from  clod  to  clod,  in- 
specting the  furrows  rich  in  unearthed  grub- 
worms.  Lastly,  I  came  upon  the  Provencal  expres- 


1  The  Wheat-ear,  one  of  the  Saxicolae,  is  known  also  as 
the  White-Tail,  the  meaning  of  both  forms  being  the 
same;  White-ear  being  a  corruptive  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  name.  Both  correspond  with  the  Provencal  Cul- 
blanc.  The  Stonechat  is  a  member  of  the  same  genus. 
B.  M. 

56 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

sion  Cul-blanc,  which  is  also  a  picturesque  term, 
suggesting  the  patch  on  the  bird's  rump  which 
spreads  out  like  a  white  butterfly  flitting  over  the 
fields. 

Thus  did  the  vocabulary  come  into  being  that 
would  one  day  allow  me  to  greet  by  their  real 
names  the  thousand  actors  on  the  stage  of  the 
fields,  the  thousand  little  flowers  that  smile  at  us 
from  the  wayside.  The  word  which  the  curate 
had  spoken  without  attaching  the  least  importance 
to  it  revealed  a  world  to  me,  the  world  of  plants 
and  animals  designated  by  their  real  names.  To 
the  future  must  belong  the  task  of  deciphering  some 
pages  of  the  immense  lexicon ;  for  to-day  I  will  con- 
tent myself  with  remembering  the  Saxicola,  or 
Wheat-ear. 

On  the  west,  my  village  crumbles  into  an  ava- 
lanche of  garden-patches,  in  which  plums  and  ap- 
ples ripen.  Low,  bulging  walls,  blackened  with 
the  stains  of  lichens  and  mosses,  support  the  ter- 
races. The  brook  runs  at  the  foot  of  the  slope. 
It  can  be  cleared  almost  everywhere  at  a  bound. 
In  the  wider  parts,  flat  stones  standing  out  of  the 
water  serve  as  a  foot-bridge.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  whirlpool,  the  terror  of  mothers  when 
the  children  are  away;  it  is  nowhere  more  than 
knee-deep.  Dear  little  brook,  so  tranquil,  cool,  and 
clear,  I  have  seen  majestic  rivers  since,  I  have  seen 
the  boundless  seas;  but  nothing  in  my  memories 
equals  your  modest  falls.  About  you  clings  all  the 
hallowed  pleasure  of  my  first  impressions. 

A  miller  has  bethought  him  of  putting  the  brook, 

57 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

which  used  to  flow  so  gaily  through  the  fields,  to 
work.  Halfway  up  the  slope,  a  watercourse,  econ- 
omising the  gradient,  diverts  part  of  the  water,  and 
conducts  it  into  a  large  reservoir,  which  supplies 
the  mill-wheels  with  motor-power.  This  basin 
stands  beside  a  frequented  path,  and  is  walled  off 
at  the  end. 

One  day,  hoisting  myself  on  a  play-fellow's  shoul- 
ders, I  looked  over  the  melancholy  wall,  all  bearded 
with  ferns.  I  saw  bottomless,  stagnant  waters  cov- 
ered with  slimy  green.  In  the  gaps  in  the  sticky 
carpet,  a  sort  of  dumpy,  black-and-yellow  reptile 
was  lazily  swimming.  To-day  I  should  call  it  a 
Salamander;  at  that  time,  it  appeared  to  me  the 
offspring  of  the  Serpent  and  the  Dragon,  of  whom 
we  were  told  such  blood-curdling  tales  when  we 
sat  up  at  night.  Hoo!  I've  seen  enough;  let's 
get  down  again,  quick! 

The  brook  runs  below.  Alders  and  ash,  bending 
forward  on  either  bank,  mingle  their  branches  and 
form  a  verdant  arch.  At  their  feet,  behind  a  porch 
of  great  twisted  roots,  are  watery  caverns  pro- 
longed by  gloomy  corridors.  On  the  threshold  of 
these  fastnesses  shimmers  a  glint  of  sunshine,  cut 
into  ovals  by  the  leafy  sieve  above. 

This  is  the  haunt  of  the  red-necktied  Minnows. 
Come  along  very  gently,  lie  flat  on  the  ground  and 
look.  What  pretty  little  fish  they  are,  with  their 
scarlet  throats!  Clustering  side  by  side,  with  their 
heads  turned  against  the  stream,  they  puff  their 
cheeks  out  and  in,  rinsing  their  mouths  incessantly. 
To  keep  their  stationary  position  in  the  running 
58 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

water,  they  need  naught  but  a  slight  quiver  of  their 
tail  and  of  the  fin  on  their  back.  A  leaf  falls  from 
the  tree.  Whoosh!  The  whole  troop  has  disap- 
peared. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  brook  is  a  spinney  of 
beeches,  with  smooth,  straight  trunks,  like  pillars. 
In  their  majestic,  shady  branches  sit  chattering 
Rooks,  drawing  from  their  wings  old  feathers  re- 
placed by  new.  The  ground  is  padded  with  moss. 
At  one's  first  step  on  the  downy  carpet,  the  eye  is 
caught  by  a  mushroom,  not  yet  full-spread  and  look- 
ing like  an  egg  dropped  there  by  some  vagrant  Hen. 
It  is  the  first  that  I  have  picked,  the  first  that  I 
have  turned  round  and  round  in  my  fingers,  inquir- 
ing into  its  structure  with  that  vague  curiosity 
which  is  the  first  awakening  of  observation. 

Soon  I  find  others,  differing  in  size,  shape,  and 
colour.  It  is  a  real  treat  for  my  prentice  eyes. 
Some  are  fashioned  like  bells,  like  extinguishers, 
like  cups;  some  are  drawn  out  into  spindles,  hol- 
lowed into  funnels,  rounded  into  hemispheres.  I 
come  upon  some  that  are  broken  and  are  weeping 
milky  tears;  I  step  on  some  that,  instantly,  be- 
come tinged  with  blue;  I  see  some  big  ones  that 
are  crumbling  into  rot  and  swarming  with  worms. 
Others,  shaped  like  pears,  are  dry  and  open  at  the 
top  with  a  round  hole,  a  sort  of  chimney  whence 
a  whiff  of  smoke  escapes  when  I  prod  their  under- 
side with  my  finger.  These  are  the  most  curious. 
I  fill  my  pockets  with  them  to  make  them  smoke 
at  my  leisure,  until  I  exhaust  the  contents,  which 
are  at  last  reduced  to  a  kind  of  tinder. 
59 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

What  fun  I  had  in  that  delightful  spinney!  I 
returned  to  it  many  a  time  after  my  first  find; 
and  here,  in  the  company  of  the  Rooks,  I  received 
my  first  lessons  in  mushroom  lore.  My  harvests,  I 
need  hardly  say,  were  not  admitted  to  the  house. 
The  mushroom,  or  the  Bouturel,  as  we  call  it, 
had  a  bad  reputation  for  poisoning  people.  That 
was  enough  to  make  mother  banish  it  from  the 
family  table.  I  could  scarcely  understand  how  the 
Bouturel,  so  attractive  in  appearance,  came  to  be  so 
wicked;  however,  I  accepted  the  experience  of  my 
elders ;  and  no  disaster  ever  ensued .  from  my  rash 
friendship  with  the  poisoner. 

As  my  visits  to  the  beech-clump  were  repeated, 
I  managed  to  divide  my  finds  into  three  categories. 
In  the  first,  which  was  the  most  numerous,  the 
mushroom  was  furnished  underneath  with  little 
radiating  flakes.  In  the  second,  the  lower  surface 
was  lined  with  a  thick  pad  pricked  with  hardly 
visible  holes.  In  the  third,  it  bristled  with  tiny 
spots  similar  to  the  papilla?  on  a  cat's  tongue.  The 
need  of  some  order  to  assist  the  memory  made  me 
invent  a  classification  for  myself. 

Very  much  later  there  fell  into  my  hands  cer- 
tain small  books  from  which  I  learnt  that  my  three 
categories  were  well  known;  they  even  had  Latin 
names,  which  fact  was  far  from  displeasing  to  me. 
Ennobled  by  Latin  which  provided  me  with  my 
first  exercises  and  translations,  glorified  by  the  an- 
cient language  which  the  rector  used  in  saying  his 
mass,  the  mushroom  rose  in  my  esteem.  To  de- 
60 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

serve  so  learned  an  appellation,  it  must  possess  a 
genuine  importance. 

The  same  books  told  me  the  name  of  the  one 
that  had  amused  me  so  much  with  its  smoking 
chimney.  It  is  called  the  Puffball  in  English,  but 
its  French  name  is  the  Vesse-de-loup.  I  disliked 
the  expression,  which  to  my  mind  smacked  of  bad 
company.  Next  to  it  was  a  more  decent  denomi- 
nation: Lycoperdon;  but  this  was  only  so  in  ap- 
pearance, for  Greek  roots  sooner  or  later  taught 
me  that  Lycoperdon  means  Vesse-de-loupe  and  noth- 
ing else. 

How  far  off  are  those  blessed  times  when  my 
childish  curiosity  sought  solitary  exercise  in  making 
itself  acquainted  with  the  mushroom!  " Eheu! 
Fugaces  labuntur  anni! "  said  Horace.  Ah,  yes, 
the  years  glide  fleeting  by,  especially  when  they 
are  nearing  their  end!  They  were  once  the  merry 
brook  that  dallies  among  the  willows  on  imper- 
ceptible slopes ;  to-day,  they  are  the  torrent  swirl- 
ing a  thousand  straws  along  as  it  rushes  towards 
the  abyss.1 

Can  one  imagine  a  more  picturesque  and 
original  fashion  of  sketching  the  outline  of 
one's  earliest  memories?  We  have  collected 
these  memories,  which  he  has  scattered  so 
profusely  over  the  pages  of  his  books,  with 
pious  care,  because  they  so  delightfully  re- 

1  Souvenirs,  pp.  292-300.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
xvii.,  "  Recollections  of  Childhood." 

61 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

veal  a  soul  and  a  life  that  are  akin  to  our 
own,  more  especially  in  their  beginnings,  and 
because  they  so  wonderfully  evoke  an  age 
and  a  country  that  were  once  ours  and  are 
still  the  possession  of  our  grand-nephews. 

At  the  age  of  ten  the  time  came  for  the 
child  to  bid  a  fresh  farewell  to  his  native 
village.  His  father  was  the  first  of  his  race 
to  be  tempted  by  the  town,  and  he  removed 
his  home  to  Rodez.  Jean-Henri  was  never 
again  to  behold  the  humble  village  where  he 
lived  "  his  best  years,"  but  he  bore  its  image 
indelibly  stamped  upon  his  mind,  upon  that 
part  of  it  in  which  are  formed  those  pro- 
found impressions  that  grow  more  vivid  with 
the  years  instead  of  fading.  He  left  it  at 
first  with  a  light  heart,  but  later  on  he  was 
homesick  for  it;  and  as  the  years  went  by 
he  felt  more  than  ever  its  mysterious  attrac- 
tion, so  that  one  of  his  last  wishes  was  to 
see  his  grave  dug  in  the  shadow  of  his  cradle. 
But  we  will  not  wrong  feelings  so  delicate 
by  seeking  to  interpret  them;  we  will  let  him 
speak  for  himself. 

Leaving  our  native  village  is  no  very  serious 
matter  when  we  are  children.  We  even  look  on 
it  as  a  sort  of  holiday.  We  are  going  to  see  some- 
thing new,  those  magic  pictures  of  our  dreams. 
With  age  come  regrets;  and  the  close  of  life  is 
62 


The  Schoolboy:    Saint-Leons 

spent  in  stirring  up  old  memories.  Then,  in  our 
dreamy  moods,  the  beloved  village  reappears,  em- 
bellished, transfigured  by  the  glow  of  those  first 
impressions;  and  the  mental  image,  superior  to  the 
reality,  stands  out  in  amazingly  clear  relief.  The 
past,  the  far-off  past,  was  only  yesterday;  we  see 
it,  we  touch  it. 

For  my  part,  after  three-quarters  of  a  century, 
I  could  walk  with  my  eyes  closed  straight  to  the 
flat  stone  where  I  first  heard  the  soft  chiming  note 
of  the  Midwife  Toad;  yes,  I  should  find  it  to  a 
certainty,  if  time,  which  devastates  all  things,  even 
the  homes  of  Toads,  has  not  moved  it  or  perhaps 
left  it  in  ruins. 

I  see,  on  the  margin  of  the  brook,  the  exact 
position  of  the  alder-trees  whose  tangled  roots, 
deep  under  the  water,  were  a  refuge  for  the  Cray- 
fish. I  should  say: 

"  It  is  just  at  the  foot  of  this  tree  that  I  had  the 
unutterable  bliss  of  catching  a  beauty.  She  had 
horns  so  long  .  .  .  and  enormous  claws,  full  of 
meat,  for  I  got  her  just  at  the  right  time." 

I  should  go  without  faltering  to  the  ash  under 
whose  shade  my  heart  beat  so  loudly  one  sunny 
spring  morning.  I  had  caught  sight  of  a  sort  of 
white,  cottony  ball  among  the  branches.  Peeping 
from  the  depths  of  the  wadding  was  an  anxious 
little  head  with  a  red  hood  to  it.  Oh,  what  un- 
paralleled luck!  It  was  a  Goldfinch,  sitting  on  her 
eggs. 

I  know  my  village  thoroughly,  though  I  quitted 
it  so  long  ago;  and  I  know  hardly  anything  of  the 

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The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

towns  to  which  the  vicissitudes  of  life  have  brought 
me.  An  exquisitely  sweet  link  binds  us  to  our  na- 
tive soil;  we  are  like  the  plant  that  has  to  be  torn 
away  from  the  spot  where  it  put  out  its  first  roots. 
Poor  though  it  be,  I  should  love  to  see  my  own 
village  again;  I  should  like  to  leave  my  bones 
there.1 

1  Souvenirs,    vni.,    pp.    125-129.      Bramble-bees,    chap, 
xiii.,  "The  Halicti;    The  Portress." 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  THE  COLLEGE  OF  RODEZ 

"1T7E  have  learned  what  we  may  of  the 
*  *      schoolboy  of  Saint-Leons.    Let  us  fol- 
low him  to  the  Lycee  of  Rodez,  which  he 
entered  as  a  day-boy  at  the  age  of  ten: 

I  come  to  the  time  when  I  was  ten  years  old 
and  at  Rodez  College.  My  functions  as  a  serving- 
boy  in  the  chapel  entitled  me  to  free  instruction 
as  a  day-boarder.  There  were  four  of  us  in  white 
surplices  and  red  skull-caps  and  cassocks.  I  was 
the  youngest  of  the  party,  and  did  little  more  than 
walk  on.  I  counted  as  a  unit;  and  that  was  about 
all,  for  I  was  never  certain  when  to  ring  the  bell 
or  when  to  move  the  missal  from  one  side  of  the 
altar  to  the  other.  I  was  all  of  a  tremble  when 
we  gathered,  two  on  this  side,  two  on  that,  with 
genuflexions,  in  the  middle  of  the  sanctuary,  to  in- 
tone the  Domine,  salvum  fac  regem  at  the  end 
of  mass.  Let  me  make  a  confession:  tongue-tied 
with  shyness,  I  used  to  leave  it  to  the  others. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  well  thought  of,  for,  in  the 
school,  I  cut  a  good  figure  in  composition  and  trans- 
lation. In  that  classical  atmosphere  there  was  talk 
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The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  Procas,  King  of  Alba,  and  of  his  two  sons, 
Numitor  and  Amulius.  We  heard  of  Cynaegirus, 
the  strong-jawed  man,  who,  having  lost  his  two 
hands  in  battle,  seized  and  held  a  Persian  galley 
with  his  teeth,  and  of  Cadmus  the  Phoenician,  who 
sowed  a  dragon's  teeth  as  though  they  were  beans, 
and  gathered  his  harvest  in  the  shape  of  a  host  of 
armed  men,  who  killed  one  another  as  they  rose 
up  from  the  ground.  The  only  one  who  survived 
the  slaughter  was  one  as  tough  as  leather,  presum- 
ably the  son  of  the  big  back  grinder. 

Had  they  talked  to  me  about  the  man  in  the 
moon,  I  could  not  have  been  more  startled.  I  made 
up  for  it  with  my  animals,  which  I  was  far  from 
forgetting  amid  this  phantasmagoria  of  heroes  and 
demigods.  While  honouring  the  exploits  of  Cadmus 
and  Cynaegirus,  I  hardly  ever  failed,  on  Sundays 
and  Thursdays,  to  go  and  see  if  the  cowslip  or  the 
yellow  daffodil  was  making  its  appearance  in  the 
meadows,  if  the  Linnet  was  hatching  on  the  juni- 
per-bushes, if  the  Cockchafers  were  plopping  down 
from  the  wind-shaken  poplars.  Thus  was  the  sa- 
cred spark  kept  aglow,  ever  brighter  than  before.1 

At  Rodez,  as  at  Saint-Leons,  natural  ob- 
jects provided  him  with  the  chief  material  of 
his  recreations: 

The  thrice-blessed  Thursday  had  come;  our  bit 
of  translation  was  done,  our  dozen  Greek  roots  had 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  p.  60.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  vi., 
"  My  Schooling." 

66 


At  the  College  of  Rodez 

been  learnt  by  heart;  and  we  trooped  down  to  the 
far  end  of  the  valley,  so  many  bands  of  madcaps. 
With  our  trousers  turned  up  to  our  knees,  we  ex- 
ploited, artless  fishermen  that  we  were,  the  peace- 
ful waters  of  the  river,  the  Aveyron.  What  we 
hoped  to  catch  was  the  Loach,  no  bigger  than  our 
little  finger,  but  tempting,  thanks  to  his  immobility 
on  the  sand  amid  the  water-weeds.  We  fully  ex- 
pected to  transfix  him  with  our  trident,  a  fork. 

This  miraculous  catch,  the  object  of  such  shouts 
of  triumph  when  it  succeeded,  was  very  rarely 
vouchsafed  to  us;  the  Loach,  the  rascal,  saw  the 
fork  coming  and  with  three  strokes  of  his  tail  dis- 
appeared ! 

We  found  compensation  in  the  apple-trees  in  the 
neighbouring  pastures.  The  apple  has  from  all 
time  been  the  urchin's  delight,  above  all  when 
plucked  from  a  tree  which  does  not  belong  to  him. 
Our  pockets  were  soon  crammed  with  the  forbid- 
den fruit. 

Another  distraction  awaited  us.  Flocks  of  Tur- 
keys were  not  rare,  roaming  at  their  own  sweet 
will  and  gobbling  up  the  Locusts  around  the  farms. 
If  no  watcher  hove  in  sight,  we  had  great  sport. 
Each  of  us  would  seize  a  Turkey,  tuck  her  head 
under  her  wing,  rock  it  in  this  attitude  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  place  her  on  the  ground,  lying  on 
her  side.  The  bird  no  longer  budged.  The  whole 
flock  of  Turkeys  was  subjected  to  our  hypnotic 
handling;  and  the  meadow  assumed  the  aspect  of 
a  battle-field  strewn  with  the  dead  and  dying. 

And  now 'look  out  for  the  farmer's  wife!  The 
67 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

loud  gobbling  of  the  harassed  birds  had  told  her 
of  our  wicked  pranks.  She  would  run  up  armed 
with  a  whip.  But  we  had  good  legs  in  those  days! 
And  we  had  a  good  laugh  too,  behind  the  hedges, 
which  favoured  our  retreat! 

How  did  we,  the  little  Rodez  schoolboys,  learn 
the  secret  of  the  Turkey's  slumber?  It  was  cer- 
tainly not  in  our  books.  Coming  from  no  one 
knows  where,  indestructible  as  everything  that  en- 
ters into  children's  games,  it  was  handed  down, 
from  time  immemorial,  from  one  initiate  to  an- 
other. 

Things  are  just  the  same  to-day  in  my  village 
of  Serignan,  where  there  are  numbers  of  youthful 
adepts  in  the  art  of  putting  poultry  to  sleep. 
Science  often  has  very  humble  beginnings.  There 
is  nothing  to  tell  us  that  the  mischief  of  a  pack  of 
idle  urchins  is  not  the  starting-point  of  our  knowl- 
edge of  hypnosis.1 

The  incident  of  which  we  have  just  read 
was  the  starting-point  of  the  investigations 
which  Fabre  was  to  undertake  fifty  years 
later  concerning  the  artificial  sleep  of  birds 
and  insects. 

If  he  had  hearkened  only  to  his  passion 
for  Nature,  the  schoolboy  of  Rodez  would 
soon  have  become  one  of  the  most  ardent 
disciples  of  the  school  of  the  woods;  that  is, 

1  Souvenirs,  VII.,  pp.  29,  33.  The  Glow-Worm  and 
Other  Beetles,  chap,  xv.,  "Suicide  or  Hypnosis?" 

68 


At  the  College  of  Rodez 

he  would  have  played  truant.  But  he  was, 
happily,  from  an  early  age,  a  worker;  be- 
cause industry  was  for  him  both  a  family  in- 
heritance and  an  imperious  necessity.  Had 
he  not  been  sent  to  college  on  condition  of 
winning  prizes?  Could  he  show  himself  an 
idle  scholar  when  he  saw  his  parents  wear- 
ing themselves  out  in  order  to  supply  the 
needs  of  their  family?  Moreover,  as  he 
rose  from  class  to  class,  the  love  of  learn- 
ing increased  within  him.  Latin  ceased  to 
be  repulsive,  and  became  even  wholly  sym- 
pathetic, when  he  found,  in  the  fifth  class, 
thanks  to  the  genius  of  Virgil,  that  it  dig- 
nified the  humble  joys  of  rural  life  by  the 
emphasis  of  skilfully  chosen  words  and  bril- 
liant colours  of  the  poet: 

By  easy  stages  I  came  to  Virgil,  and  was  much 
smitten  with  Meliboeus,  Corydon,  Menalcas, 
Damoetas,  and  the  rest  of  them.  The  scandals 
of  the  ancient  shepherds  fortunately  passed  unno- 
ticed ;  and  within  the  frame  in  which  the  charac- 
ters moved  were  exquisite  details  concerning  the 
Bee,  the  Cicada,  the  Turtle-dove,  the  Crow,  the 
Nanny-goat,  and  the  golden  broom.  A  veritable 
delight  were  these  stones  of  the  fields,  sung  in 
sonorous  verse;  and  the  Latin  poet  left  a  lasting 
impression  on  my  classical  recollections.1 

1  Souvenirs,  VI.,  p.  61.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  vi., 
"My  Schooling." 

69 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

Traces  of  Virgil  are  often  visible — more 
often  than  those  of  the  other  classical  writers 
— in  the  work  of  Fabre.  He  loves  to  em- 
bellish his  narratives  with  quotations  bor- 
rowed from  the  writer  of  the  Bucolics  and 
the  Georgics,  and  he  loves  also  to  evoke  the 
happy  days  of  his  boyhood  at  Rodez  behind 
the  lineaments  of  the  Virgilian  idylls,  which 
were  far  more  akin  to  the  taste  of  his  age 
and  the  instinct  of  his  genius  than  the 
Metamorphoses  of  Ovid  or  Religion  of  Louis 
Racine,  who  shared,  with  the  Mantuan,  the 
privilege  of  providing  the  young  humanist 
of  1835  at  the  Rodez  lycee  with  literary  ex- 
ercises. 

All  roads  lead  to  Rome.  It  is  enough  that 
they  do  so.  Without  sacrificing  any  of  the 
demands  of  the  classics,  by  way  of  analogy 
or  by  way  of  antithesis,  the  child's  mind 
was  constantly  escaping  from  his  books  to- 
ward the  things  of  Nature  and  Life. 

In  its  free,  palpitating  flight  his  thought 
kindled  his  imagination,  and  with  indescrib- 
able emotion  he  began  to  touch  upon  more 
serious  questions: 

The  problem  of  life  and  that  other  one,   with 
its   dark   terrors,    the   problem  of   death,    at   times 
passed  through  my  mind.     It  was  a  fleeting  obses- 
sion,  soon    forgotten   by    the   mercurial    spirits   of 
70 


At  the  College  of  Rodez 

youth.  Nevertheless,  the  tremendous  question 
would  recur,  brought  to  mind  by  this  incident  or 
that. 

Passing  one  day  by  a  slaughter-house,  I  saw  an 
Ox  driven  in  by  the  butcher.  I  have  always  had 
an  insurmountable  horror  of  blood ;  when  I  was 
a  boy,  the  sight  of  an  open  wound  affected  me  so 
much  that  I  would  fall  into  a  swoon,  which  on 
more  than  one  occasion  nearly  cost  me  my  life. 
How  did  I  screw  up  courage  to  set  foot  in  those 
shambles?  No  doubt,  the  dread  problem  of  death 
urged  me  on.  At  any  rate,  I  entered,  close  on  the 
heels  of  the  Ox. 

With  a  stout  rope  round  its  horns,  wet-muzzled, 
meek-eyed,  the  animal  moves  along  as  though  mak- 
ing for  the  crib  in  its  stable.  The  man  walks 
ahead,  holding  the  rope.  We  enter  the  hall  of 
death,  amid  the  sickening  stench  thrown  up  by  the 
entrails  scattered  over  the  ground  and  the  pools 
of  blood.  The  Ox  becomes  aware  that  this  is  not 
his  stable;  his  eyes  turn  red  with  terror;  he  strug- 
gles; he  tries  to  escape.  But  an  iron  ring  is  there, 
in  the  floor,  firmly  fixed  to  a  stone  flag.  The  man 
passes  the  rope  through  it  and  hauls.  The  Ox 
lowers  his  head;  his  muzzle  touches  the  ground. 
While  an  assistant  keeps  him  in  this  position  with 
the  rope,  the  butcher  takes  a  knife  with  a  pointed 
blade;  not  at  all  a  formidable  knife,  hardly  larger 
than  the  one  which  I  myself  carry  in  my  breeches- 
pocket.  For  a  moment  he  feels  with  his  fingers 
at  the  back  of  the  animal's  neck  and  then  drives 
in  the  blade  at  the  chosen  spot.  The  great  beact 
71 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

gives  a  shiver  and  drops,  as  though  struck  by  light- 
ning: procumbit  humi  bos,  as  we  used  to  say  in 
those  days. 

I  fled  from  the  place  like  one  possessed.  After- 
wards I  wondered  how  it  was  possible,  with  a  knife 
almost  identical  with  that  which  I  used  for  priz- 
ing open  my  walnuts  and  taking  the  skin  off  my 
chestnuts,  with  that  insignificant  blade,  to  kill  an 
Ox  and  kill  him  so  suddenly.  No  gaping  wound, 
no  blood  spilt,  not  a  bellow  from  the  animal.  The 
man  feels  with  his  ringer,  gives  a  jab,  and  the 
thing  is  done:  the  Bullock's  legs  double  up  under 
him. 

This  instantaneous  death,  this  lightning-stroke, 
remained  an  awesome  mystery  to  me.  It  was  only 
later,  very  much  later,  that  I  learnt  the  secret  of 
the  slaughter-house,  at  a  time  when,  in  the  course 
of  my  promiscuous  reading,  I  was  picking  up  a 
smattering  of  anatomy.  The  man  had  cut  through 
the  spinal  marrow  where  it  leaves  the  skull;  he 
had  severed  what  our  physiologists  have  called  the 
vital  cord.  To-day  I  might  say  that  he  had  oper- 
ated in  the  manner  of  the  Wasps,  whose  lancet 
plunges  into  the  nerve-centres.1 

This  gloomy  picture  of  a  sudden,  terrify- 
ing, violent  death  may  be  compared  with  an- 
other which,  in  some  respects,  is  even  more 
tragic :  that  of  the  ruined  home  and  the  shat- 

1  Souvenirs,  II.,  pp.  41-44,  46.     Hunting   Wasps,  chap. 
xx.,  "  A  Modern  Theory  of  Instinct." 
72 


At  the  College  of  Rodez 

tered  life  of  the  little  Rodez  schoolboy,  who 
was  to  leave  the  town  somewhat  as  he  left 
the  slaughter-house,  bewildered  by  the  catas- 
trophe of  which  he  had  just  been  the  witness 
and  was  soon  to  be  the  victim.  At  this  point 
of  his  narrative  his  eyes  are  dim  with  tears 
and  his  voice  is  choked  by  a  half-suppressed 
sob. 

Then,  suddenly,  good-bye  to  my  studies,  good- 
bye to  Tityrus  and  Menalcas !  Ill-luck  is  swooping 
down  on  us,  relentlessly.  Hunger  threatens  us  at 
home.  And  now,  boy,  put  your  trust  in  God; 
run  about  and  earn  your  penn'orth  of  potatoes  as 
best  you  can.  Life  is  about  to  become  a  hideous 
inferno.  Let  us  pass  quickly  over  this  phase. 

Amid  that  lamentable  chaos  my  love  for  the  in- 
sect ought  to  have  gone  under.  Not  at  all.  It 
would  have  survived  the  raft  of  the  Medusa.  I 
still  remember  a  certain  Pine  Cockchafer  met  for 
the  first  time.  The  plumes  on  her  antennae,  her 
pretty  pattern  of  white  spots  on  a  dark-brown 
ground  were  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  the  gloomy 
wretchedness  of  the  day.1 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  p.  61.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  vi., 
"My  Schooling." 


73 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   PUPIL  TEACHER:   AVIGNON    (1841-43) 

'  I  VHE  stroke  of  misfortune  which  sud- 
•••  denly  interrupted  Jean-Henri's  studies 
at  the  Rodez  lycee  made  him  an  exile  from 
his  father's  house  and  banished  him  from  his 
native  countryside. 

For  the  second  time  he  was,  as  it  were, 
dropped  upon  the  road  like  Perrault's  Tom 
Thumb.  And  the  fairy-tale  comes  to  life 
again  in  the  Odyssey  of  the  poor  boy  who 
wandered  at  random,  picking  up  his  food  at 
hazard,  facing  misfortune  with  a  stout  heart, 
and  smiling  whenever  he  could  at  the  poem 
of  Nature,  who  always  had  some  fresh  sur- 
prise in  store  for  him. 

Who  can  fail  to  be  moved  by  pity  and  ad- 
miration, beholding  him  set  forth  upon  the 
broad,  white  highroads,  a  wandering  child, 
all  but  lost,  seeking  his  way,  seeking  his  live- 
lihood even,  without  other  relief,  in  his  ex- 
tremity of  distress,  and  almost  without  other 
food  than  his  love  of  Nature  and  his  pas- 
74 


The  Pupil  Teacher:    Avignon 

sion  for  learning?  See  him,  for  example, 
on  the  day  when,  between  Beaucaire  and 
Nfmes,  he  contrived  to  make  his  dinner  off 
a  few  bunches  of  grapes  "  plucked  furtively 
at  the  edge  of  a  field,  after  exchanging  the 
poor  remnant  of  his  last  halfpence  for  a  little 
volume  of  Reboul's  poems;  soothing  his 
hunger  by  intoxicating  himself  with  the 
verses  of  the  workman  poet,"  x  whose  in- 
spiration was  of  so  noble  and  Christian  a 
character. 

The  whole  Fabre  is  in  this  trait  of  the 
needy,  enraptured  youth,  who  thinks  nothing 
of  hardships  or  of  money  provided  he  can 
find  the  wherewithal  to  assuage  his  thirst  for 
knowledge  and  the  ideal. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  true  that  he  passed 
through  many  dark  and  painful  hours  at  that 
period.  But  in  the  end  "  the  good  fortune 
that  never  deserts  the  valiant "  opened  the 
doors  of  the  Normal  College  of  Avignon  for 
him.  Having  ventured  to  face  the  examina- 
tion for  a  bursary,  he  won  the  latter  with 
the  greatest  ease.  There  he  found  a  first 
refuge  from  the  uncertainties  of  the  morrow, 
although  he  had  not  yet  achieved  his  ideal, 
nor  even  that  place  in  the  sun  which  he  was 

1  Fabre,  Poet  of  Science,  by  G.  V.  Legros,  translated  by 
Bernard  Miall  (T.  Fisher  Unwin),  p.  24. 

75 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

striving  to  prepare  for  himself.  Imagine 
"  between  four  high  walls  a  courtyard,  a  sort 
of  bear-pit  in  which  the  scholars  contend  for 
room  beneath  the  boughs  of  a  plane-tree;  and 
opening  on  to  it,  on  every  side,  the  class- 
rooms, like  so  many  cages  for  wild  beasts, 
devoid  of  daylight  or  air."  This  was  the 
Normal  College  of  Vaucluse. 

The  description  recalls,  in  some  respects, 
that  which  was  given  by  a  sometime  pupil  of 
the  Normal  College  of  Paris,  M.  Rene 
Doumic,  on  taking  his  seat  in  the  Academy, 
in  the  place  of  Gaston  Boissier:  "  I  loved  the 
Normal  College,  and  I  am  still  faithful  in 
my  attachment  to  it.  I  hope  my  recollec-. 
tions  of  it  will  not  be  thought  lacking  in  piety 
if  I  state  that  the  building  in  which  they 
penned  us  up,  young  fellows  of  twenty,  was 
the  most  dismal  place  that  I  have  ever  seen 
anywhere.  This  extraordinary  building,  by 
an  architectural  prodigy  which  I  will  not  at- 
tempt to  explain,  turned  all  four  sides  to 
the  north.  In  three  years  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  saw  a  single  ray  of  sunlight  enter  our 
lecture-rooms  or  the  cloisters  in  which  we 
used  to  wander  like  so  many  shades.  A 
mournful  daylight  expired  upon  the  grey, 
grimy  walls.  In  short,  it  was  not  a  cheerful 
place.  But  at  Boissier's  lectures  all  became 
76 


The  Pupil  Teacher:    Avignon 

bright,  full  of  animation  and  renewed  life. 
It  was  a  sudden  metamorphoses." 

At  the  Normal  College  of  Vaucluse  it  was 
not  the  lectures  given  by  the  masters  that 
transformed  the  abode  of  shades  or  the 
bears'  cage  into  a  centre  of  light  and  life  for 
the  budding  biologist.  It  was  something  bet- 
ter than  that.  By  good  fortune  the  director 
of  the  College  was  broad-minded  enough  to 
allow  him  to  employ  in  his  own  fashion  all 
the  time  that  was  left  to  him  after  he  had 
prepared  his  lessons  and  his  exercises.  We 
may  imagine  that  he  did  not  loiter  over  his 
classics.  The  school  programme,  for  that 
matter,  was  not  very  heavy;  the  orthographic 
difficulties  which  complicated  most  of  the  ex- 
ercises of  the  future  schoolmasters  were  mere 
play  to  the  ex-Latinist  of  the  Rodez  lycee. 
And  u  while  all  around  him  dictated  pas- 
sages were  being  minutely  scanned  with  much 
searching  of  the  dictionary,  he  examined,  in 
the  secrecy  of  his  desk,  the  fruit  of  the  ole- 
ander, the  flower  of  the  snapdragon,  the  sting 
of  a  Wasp,  the  wing-cover  of  a  gardener- 
beetle."  Thus  he  treated  himself  to  a  lec- 
ture of  his  own  fashion  whose  charm  and 
fascination  greatly  exceeded  that  of  anything 
that  the  college  could  teach  him. 

So  much  so  that  he  left  the  College  more 
77 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

in  love  than  ever  with  insects  and  flowers, 
and  thoroughly  determined  to  fill  what  he 
considered  to  be  one  of  the  most  serious  de- 
ficiencies of  official  instruction. 

Alas!  there  were  many  deficiencies  in  the 
education  received  by  his  masters  which  would 
have  to  be  made  good  in  order  to  complete 
the  literary  education  which  the  professors  of 
the  Rodez  lycee  had  begun  to  give  him,  and 
the  scientific  training  which  he  had  hardly 
commenced  at  the  Normal  College. 

We  must  listen  to  his  reminiscences  of  his 
career  as  pupil  teacher,  to  the  inventory  of 
the  scientific  equipment  of  a  schoolboy  of 
1840,  to  the  story  of  his  first  and  last  les- 
son in  chemistry,  to  see  how  poor  he  was  in 
acquired  knowledge  and  how  rich  in  the  de- 
sire for  knowledge,  before  we  can  estimate 
the  length  of  the  road  which  he  had  to  travel 
when  he  had  passed  through  the  classes  of 
the  College. 

In  my  normal  school,  the  scientific  teaching  was 
on  an  exceedingly  modest  scale,  consisting  mainly 
of  arithmetic  and  odds  and  ends  of  geometry. 
Physics  was  hardly  touched.  We  were  taught  a 
little  meteorology,  in  a  summary  fashion:  a  word 
or  two  about  a  red  moon,  a  white  frost,  dew,  snow 
and  wind ;  and,  with  this  smattering  of  rustic 
physics,  we  were  considered  to  know  enough  of  the 
78 


The  Pupil  Teacher:    Avignon 

subject  to  discuss  the  weather  with  the  farmer  and 
the  ploughman. 

Of  natural  history,  absolutely  nothing.  No  one 
thought  of  telling  us  anything  about  flowers  and 
trees,  which  give  such  zest  to  one's  aimless  ram- 
bles, nor  about  insects,  with  their  curious  habits, 
nor  about  stones,  so  instructive  with  their  fossil 
records.  That  entrancing  glance  through  the  win- 
dows of  the  world  was  refused  us.  Grammar  was 
allowed  to  strangle  life. 

Chemistry  was  never  mentioned  either:  that  goes 
without  saying.  I  knew  the  word,  however.  My 
casual  reading,  only  half-understood  for  want  of 
practical  demonstration,  had  taught  me  that  chem- 
istry is  concerned  with  the  shuffle  of  matter,  unit- 
ing or  separating  the  various  elements.  But  what 
a  strange  idea  I  formed  of  this  branch  of  study! 
To  me  it  smacked  of  sorcery,  of  alchemy  and  its 
search  for  the  philosopher's  stone.  To  my  mind, 
every  chemist,  when  at  work,  should  have  had  a 
magic  wand  in  his  hand  and  the  wizard's  pointed, 
star-spangled  cap  on  his  head. 

An  important  personage  who  sometimes  visited 
the  school,  in  his  capacity  as  an  honorary  lecturer, 
was  not  the  man  to  rid  me  of  those  foolish  notions. 
He  taught  physics  and  chemistry  at  the  grammar- 
school.  Twice  a  week,  from  eight  to  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  he  held  a  free  public  class  in  an 
enormous  building  adjacent  to  our  schoolhouse. 
This  was  the  former  Church  of  Saint-Martial, 
which  has  to-day  become  a  Protestant  meeting- 
house. 

79 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

It  was  a  wizard's  cave  certainly,  just  as  I  had 
pictured  it.  At  the  top  of  the  steeple,  a  rusty 
weathercock  creaked  mournfully;  in  the  dusk  great 
Bats  flew  all  around  the  edifice  or  dived  down  the 
throats  of  the  gargoyles ;  at  night  Owls  hooted  upon 
the  copings  of  the  leads.  It  was  inside,  under  the 
immensities  of  the  vault,  that  my  chemist  used  to 
perform.  What  infernal  mixtures  did  he  com- 
pound? Should  I  ever  know? 

It  is  the  day  for  his  visit.  He  comes  to  see  us 
with  no  pointed  cap:  in  ordinary  garb,  in  fact, 
with  nothing  very  queer  about  him.  He  bursts 
into  our  schoolroom  like  a  hurricane.  His  red 
face  is  half-buried  in  the  enormous  stiff  collar  that 
digs  into  his  ears.  A  few  wisps  of  red  hair  adorn 
his  temples;  the  top  of  his  head  shines  like  an  old 
ivory  ball.  In  a  dictatorial  voice  and  with  wooden 
gestures,  he  questions  two  or  three  of  the  boys; 
after  a  moment's  bullying,  he  turns  on  his  heel 
and  goes  off  in  a  whirlwind  as  he  came.  No,  this 
is  not  the  man,  a  capital  fellow  at  heart,  to  inspire 
me  with  a  pleasant  idea  of  the  things  which  -he 
teaches. 

Two  windows  of  his  laboratory  look  out  upon 
the  garden  of  the  school.  One  can  just  lean  on 
them;  and  I  often  go  and  peep  in,  trying  to  make 
out,  in  my  poor  brain,  what  chemistry  can  really 
be.  Unfortunately,  the  room  into  which  my  eyes 
penetrate  is  not  the  sanctuary,  but  a  mere  out- 
house where  the  learned  implements  and  crockery 
are  washed.  Leaden  pipes  with  taps  run  down 
the  walls;  wooden  vats  occupy  the  corners.  Some- 
80 


The  Pupil  Teacher:    Avignon 

times  those  vats  bubble,  heated  by  a  spray  of 
steam.  A  reddish  powder,  which  looks  like  brick- 
dust,  is  boiling  in  them.  I  learn  that  the  sim- 
mering stuff  is  a  dyer's  root,  known  as  madder, 
which  will  be  converted  into  a  purer  and  more 
concentrated  product.  This  is  the  master's  pet 
study. 

What  I  saw  from  the  two  windows  was  not 
enough  for  me.  I  wanted  to  see  farther,  into  the 
very  class-room.  My  wish  was  satisfied.  It  was 
the  end  of  the  scholastic  year.  A  stage  ahead  of 
the  others  in  the  regular  work,  I  had  just  obtained 
my  certificate.  I  was  free.  A  few  weeks  remain 
before  the  holidays.  Shall  I  go  and  pass  them 
out  of  doors,  in  all  the  gaiety  of  my  eighteen  sum- 
mers? No,  I  will  spend  them  at  the  school  which, 
for  two  years  past,  has  provided  me  with  an  un- 
troubled roof  and  my  daily  crust.  I  will  wait 
until  a  post  is  found  for  me.  Employ  my  willing 
service  as  you  think  fit,  do  with  me  what  you 
will;  as  long  as  I  can  study,  I  am  indifferent  to 
the  rest. 

The  principal  of  the  school,  the  soul  of  kind- 
ness, has  grasped  my  passion  for  knowledge.  He 
encourages  me  in  my  determination;  he  proposes  to 
make  me  renew  my  acquaintance  with  Horace  and 
Virgil,  so  long  since  forgotten.  He  knows  Latin, 
he  does;  he  will  rekindle  the  dead  spark  by  mak- 
ing me  translate  a  few  passages.  He  does  more: 
he  lends  me  an  Imitation,  with  parallel  texts  in 
Latin  and  Greek.  With  the  first  text,  which  I 
am  almost  able  to  read,  I  will  puzzle  out  the  sec- 
8l 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

ond  and  thus  increase  the  small  vocabulary  which 
I  acquired  in  the  days  when  I  was  translating 
JEsop's  Fables.  It  will  be  all  the  better  for  my 
future  studies.  What  luck!  Board  and  lodging, 
ancient  poetry,  the  classical  languages,  all  the  good 
things  at  once ! 

I  did  better  still.  Our  science-master — the  real, 
not  the  honorary  one — who  came  twice  a  week  to 
discourse  of  the  rule  of  three  and  the  properties 
of  the  triangle,  had  the  brilliant  idea  of  letting 
us  celebrate  the  end  of  the  school  year  with  a  feast 
of  learning.  He  promised  to  show  us  oxygen.  As 
a  colleague  of  the  chemist  in  the  grammar-school, 
he  obtained  leave  to  take  us  to  the  famous  labora- 
tory and  there  to  handle  the  object  of  his  lesson 
under  our  very  eyes.  Oxygen,  yes,  oxygen,  the 
all-consuming  gas;  that  was  what  we  were  to  see 
on  the  morrow.  I  could  not  sleep  all  night  for 
thinking  of  it. 

Thursday  afternoon  came  at  last.  As  soon  as 
the  chemistry  lesson  was  over,  we  were  to  go  for 
a  walk  to  Les  Angles,  the  pretty  village  over  yon- 
der, perched  on  a  steep  rock.  We  were  therefore 
in  our  Sunday  best,  our  out-of-door  clothes:  black 
frock-coats  and  tall  hats.  The  whole  school  was 
there,  some  thirty  of  us,  in  the  charge  of  an  usher, 
who  knew  as  little  as  we  did  of  the  things  which 
we  were  about  to  see.  We  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  laboratory,  not  without  excitement.  I  en- 
tered a  great  nave  with  a  Gothic  roof,  an  old,  bare 
church  through  which  one's  voice  echoed,  while  the 
light  penetrated  discreetly  through  stained-glass 
82 


The  Pupil  Teacher:    Avignon 

windows  set  in  ribs  and  rosettes  of  stone.  At  the 
back  were  huge  raised  benches,  with  room  for  an 
audience  of  many  hundreds;  at  the  other  end,  where 
the  choir  once  was,  stood  an  enormous  chimney- 
mantel;  in  the  middle  was  a  large  massive  table, 
corroded  by  the  chemicals.  At  one  end  of  this  table 
was  a  tarred  tub,  lined  inside  with  lead  and  filled 
with  water.  This,  I  at  once  learnt,  was  the  pneu- 
matic trough,  the  vessel  in  which  the  gases  were 
collected. 

The  professor  begins  the  experiment.  He  takes 
a  sort  of  large,  long  glass  bulb,  bent  abruptly  in 
the  region  of  the  neck.  This,  he  informs  us,  is  a 
retort.  He  pours  into  it,  from  a  screw  of  paper, 
some  black  stuff  that  looks  like  powdered  charcoal. 
This  is  manganese  dioxide,  the  master  tells  us.  It 
contains  in  abundance,  in  a  condensed  state  and 
retained  by  combination  with  the  metal,  the  gas 
which  we  propose  to  obtain.  An  oily-looking  liquid, 
sulphuric  acid,  an  excessively  powerful  agent,  will 
set  it  at  liberty.  Thus  rilled,  the  retort  is  placed 
on  a  lighted  stove.  A  glass  tube  brings  it  into 
communication  with  a  bell-jar  full  of  water  on  the 
shelf  of  the  pneumatic  trough.  Those  are  all  the 
preparations.  What  will  be  the  result?  We  must 
wait  for  the  action  of  heat. 

My  fellow-pupils  gather  eagerly  round  the  ap- 
paratus, cannot  come  close  enough  to  it.  Some  of 
them  play  the  part  of  the  fly  on  the  wheel  and 
glory  in  contributing  to  the  success  of  the  experi- 
ment. They  straighten  the  retort,  which  is  leaning 
to  one  side;  the  blow  with  their  mouths  on  the 
83 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

coals  in  the  stove.  I  do  not  care  for  these  famil- 
iarities with  the  unknown. 

Suddenly,  bang!  And  there  is  running  and 
stamping  and  shouting  and  cries  of  pain!  What 
has  happened?  I  rush  up  from  the  back  of  the 
room.  The  retort  has  burst,  squirting  its  boiling 
vitriol  in  every  direction.  The  wall  opposite  is  all 
stained  with  it.  Most  of  my  fellow-pupils  have 
been  more  or  less  struck.  One  poor  youth  has 
had  the  splashes  full  in  his  face,  right  into  his 
eyes.  He  is  yelling  like  a  madman.  With  the 
help  of  a  friend  who  has  come  off  better  than  the 
others,  I  drag  him  outside  by  main  force,  take  him 
to  the  sink,  which  fortunately  is  close  at  hand, 
and  hold  his  face  under  the  tap.  This  swift  ablu- 
tion serves  its  purpose.  The  horrible  pain  begins 
to  be  allayed,  so  much  so  that  the  sufferer  recovers 
his  senses  and  is  able  to  continue  the  washing 
process  for  himself. 

My  prompt  aid  certainly  saved  his  sight.  A 
week  later,  with  the  help  of  the  doctor's  lotions, 
all  danger  was  over.  How  lucky  it  was  that  I 
took  it  into  my  head  to  keep  some  way  off!  My 
isolation,  as  I  stood  looking  into  the  glass  case  of 
chemicals,  left  me  all  my  presence  of  mind,  my 
readiness  of  resource.  What  are  the  others  doing, 
those  who  got  splashed  through  standing  too  near 
the  chemical  bomb?  I  return  to  the  lecture-hall. 
It  is  not  a  cheerful  spectacle.  The  master  has 
come  off  badly:  his  shirt-front,  his  waistcoat  and 
trousers  are  covered  with  smears,  which  are  all 
smouldering  and  burning  into  holes.  He  hurriedly 
84 


The  Pupil  Teacher:    Avignon 

divests  himself  of  a  portion  of  his  dangerous  rai- 
ment. Those  of  us  who  possess  the  smartest  clothes 
lend  him  something  to  put  on  so  that  he  can  go 
home  decently. 

One  of  the  tall,  funnel-shaped  glasses  which  I 
was  admiring  just  now  is  standing,  full  of  am- 
monia, on  the  table.  All,  coughing  and  snivelling, 
dip  their  handkerchiefs  into  it  and  rub  the  moist 
rag  over  their  hats  and  coats.  In  this  way  the 
red  stains  left  by  the  horrible  compound  are  made 
to  disappear.  A  drop  of  ink  will  presently  restore 
the  colour  completely. 

And  the  oxygen  ?  There  was  no  more  question, 
I  need  hardly  say,  of  that.  The  feast  of  learning 
was  over.  Never  mind :  the  disastrous  lesson  was 
a  mighty  event  for  me.  I  had  been  inside  the 
chemist's  laboratory;  I  had  had  a  glimpse  of  those 
wonderful  jars  and  tubes.  In  teaching  what  mat- 
ters most  is  not  the  thing  taught,  whether  well 
or  badly  grasped:  it  is  the  stimulus  given  to  the 
pupil's  latent  aptitudes;  it  is  the  fulminate  awak- 
ing the  slumbering  explosives.  One  day,  I  shall 
obtain  on  my  own  account  that  oxygen  which  ill- 
luck  has  denied  me;  one  day,  without  a  master, 
I  shall  yet  learn  chemistry.  I  do  not  recommend 
that  method  to  anybody.  Happy  the  man  who  is 
guided  by  a  master's  word  and  example!  He  has 
a  smooth  and  easy  road  before  him,  lying  straight 
ahead.  The  other  follows  a  rugged  path,  in  which 
his  feet  often  stumble;  he  goes  groping  into  the 
unknown  and  loses  his  way.  To  recover  the  right 
road,  if  want  of  success  have  not  discouraged  him, 
85 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

he  can   rely   only  on   perseverance,    the   sole   com- 
pass of  the  poor.1 

We  shall  show  what  the  perseverance  of 
this  son  of  Aveyron  peasants  was  capable  of 
achieving,  and  after  realising  how  little  he 
got  from  his  masters  we  shall  marvel  to  see 
what  he  acquired  by  dint  of  personal  indus- 
try and  application. 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  pp.  323-331.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
xix.,  "  A  Memorable  Lesson." 


86 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER:  CARPENTRAS 

/~\NLY  eighteen  years  old,  he  left  the  Nor- 
^^  mal  College  with  hijs  diploma,  his  brevet 
superieur,  and  began  his  career  as  primary 
schoolmaster  in  the  College  of  Carpentras. 
Merit,  it  seems,  was  recognised,  and  at  the 
outset  fortune  did  not  treat  him  so  badly. 
We  may  judge  of  this  the  better  from  the  pic- 
ture which  the  ex-schoolmaster  has  given  us 
of  nis  first  beginnings  at  the  College : 

It  was  when  I  first  began  to  teach,  about  1843. 
I  had  left  the  Normal  School  at  Vaucluse  some 
months  before,  with  my  diploma  and  all  the  sim- 
pie  enthusiasm  of  my  eighteen  years,  and  had  been 
sent  to  Carpentras,  there  to  manage  the  primary 
school  attached  to  the  College.  It  was  a  strange 
school,  upon  my  word,  notwithstanding  its  pompous 
title  of  "  upper " ;  a  sort  of  huge  cellar  oozing 
with  the  perpetual  damp  engendered  by  a  well 
backing  on  it  in  the  street  outside.  For  light  there 
was  the  open  door,  when  the  weather  permittted, 
and  a  narrow  prison-window,  with  iron  bars  and 
lozenge  panes  set  in  lead.  By  way  of  benches  there 

8? 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

was  a  plank  fastened  to  the  wall  all  round  the 
room,  while  in  the  middle  was  a  chair  bereft  of 
its  straw,  a  blackboard  and  a  stick  of  chalk. 

Morning  and  evening,  at  the  sound  of  the  bell, 
there  came  rushing  in  some  fifty  young  imps  who, 
having  shown  themselves  hopeless  dunces  with  their 
Cornelius  Nepos,  had  been  relegated,  in  the  phrase 
of  the  day,  to  "  a  few  good  years  of  French." 
Those  who  had  found  mensa  too  much  for  them 
came  to  me  to  get  a  smattering  of  grammar.  Chil- 
dren and  strapping  lads  were  there,  mixed  up  to- 
gether, at  very  different  educational  stages,  but  all 
incorrigibly  agreed  to  play  tricks  upon  the  master, 
the  boy-master,  who  was  no  older  than  some  of 
them,  or  even  younger. 

To  the  little  ones  I  gave  their  first  lessons  in 
reading ;  the  intermediate  ones  I  showed  how  they 
should  hold  their  pen  to  write  a  few  lines  of  dicta- 
tion on  their  knees;  to  the  big  ones  I  revealed  the 
secrets  of  fractions  and  even  the  mysteries  of  Euclid. 
And  to  keep  this  restless  crowd  in  order,  to  give 
each  mind  work  in  accordance  with  its  strength, 
to  keep  attention  aroused,  and  lastly  to  expel  dulness 
from  the  gloomy  room,  whose  walls  dripped  melan- 
choly even  more  than  dampness,  my  one  resource 
was  my  tongue,  my  one  weapon  my  stick  of  chalk. 

Things  improved,  however:  a  master  came,  and 
came  to  stay.  I  myself  secured  tables  on  which 
my  pupils  were  able  to  write  instead  of  scribbling 
on  their  knees;  and,  as  my  class  was  daily  increas- 
ing in  numbers,  it  ended  by  being  divided  into  two. 
As  soon  'as  I  had  an  assistant  to  look  after  the 
88 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

younger   boys,    things   assumed   a   different    aspect. 

A  weeding-out  takes  place  in  my  crowd  of  scat- 
terbrains.  I  keep  the  older,  the  more  intelligent 
ones;  the  others  are  to  have  a  term  in  the  prepara- 
tory division.  From  that  day  forward  things  are 
different.  Curriculum  there  is  none.  In  those 
happy  times  the  master's  personality  counted  for 
something;  there  was  no  such  thing  as  the  scholas- 
tic piston  working  with  the  regularity  of  a  machine. 
It  was  left  for  me  to  act  as  I  thought  fit.  Well, 
what  should  I  do  to  make  the  school  earn  its  title 
of  "  upper  primary  "  ? 

Why,  of  course !  Among  other  things,  I  shall  do 
some  chemistry !  My  reading  has  taught  me  that 
it  does  no  harm  to  know  a  little  chemistry,  if  you 
would  make  your  furrows  yield  a  good  return. 
Many  of  my  pupils  come  from  the  country;  they 
will  go  back  to  it  to  improve  their  land.  Let  us 
show  them  what  the  soil  is  made  of  and  what 
the  plant  feeds  on.  Others  will  follow  industrial 
careers;  they  will  become  tanners,  metal-founders, 
distillers;  they  will  sell  cakes  of  soap  and  kegs 
of  anchovies.  Let  us  show  them  pickling,  soap- 
making,  stills,  tannin,  and  metals.  Of  course  I 
know  nothing  about  these  things,  but  I  shall  learn, 
all  the  more  so  as  I  shall  have  to  teach  them  to 
the  boys;  and  your  schoolboy  is  a  little  demon  for 
jeering  at  the  master's  hesitation. 

As  it  happens,  the  College  boasts  a  small  labora- 
tory, containing  just  what  is  strictly  indispensable: 
a  receiver,  a  dozen  glass  balloons,  a  few  tubes  and 
a  niggardly  assortment  of  chemicals.  That  will 
89 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

do,  if  I  can  have  the  run  of  it.  But  the  laboratory 
is  a  sanctum  reserved  for  the  use  of  the  sixth 
form.  No  one  sets  foot  in  it  except  the  professor 
and  his  pupils  preparing  for  their  degree.  For  me, 
the  outsider,  to  enter  that  tabernacle  with  my  band 
of  young  imps  would  be  most  unseemly;  the  right- 
ful occupant  would  never  think  of  allowing  it. 
I  feel  it  myself :  elementary  teaching  dare  not  aspire 
to  such  familiarity  with  the  higher  culture.  Very 
well,  we  will  not  go  there,  so  long  as  they  will 
lend  me  the  things. 

I  confide  my  plan  to  the  principal,  the  supreme 
dispenser  of  those  riches.  He  is  a  classics  man, 
knows  hardly  anything  of  science — at  that  time  held 
in  no  great  esteem — and  does  not  quite  understand 
the  object  of  my  request.  I  humbly  insist  and  exert 
my  powers  of  persuasion.  I  discreetly  emphasise 
the  real  point  of  the  matter.  My  group  of  pupils 
is  a  numerous  one.  It  takes  more  meals  at  the 
schoolhouse — the  real  concern  of  a  principal — than 
any  other  section  of  the  College.  This  group  must 
be  encouraged,  lured  on,  increased  if  possible.  The 
prospect  of  disposing  of  a  few  more  platefuls  of 
soup  wins  the  battle  for  me ;  my  request  is  granted. 
Poor  Science!  All  that  diplomacy  to  gain  your 
entrance  among  the  despised  ones,  who  have  not 
been  nourished  on  Cicero  and  Demosthenes! 

I  am  authorised  to  move,  once  a  week,  the  ma- 
terial required  for  my  ambitious  plans.  From  the 
first  floor,  the  sacred  dwelling  of  the  scientific 
things,  I  shall  take  them  down  to  a  sort  of  cellar 
where  I  give  my  lessons.  The  troublesome  part 
90 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

is  the  pneumatic  trough.  It  has  to  be  emptied 
before  it  is  carried  downstairs  and  to  be  filled  again 
afterwards.  A  day-scholar,  a  zealous  acolyte,  hur- 
ries over  his  dinner  and  comes  to  lend  me  a  hand 
an  hour  or  two  before  the  class  begins.  We  ef- 
fect the  move  between  us. 

What  I  am  after  is  oxygen,  the  gas  which  I 
once  saw  fail  so  lamentably.  I  thought  it  all  out 
at  my  leisure,  with  the  help  of  a  book.  I  will  do 
this,  I  will  do  that,  I  will  go  to  work  in  this  or 
the  other  fashion.  Above  all,  we  will  run  no  risks, 
perhaps  of  blinding  ourselves;  for  it  is  once  more 
a  question  of  heating  manganese  dioxide  with  sul- 
phuric acid.  I  am  filled  with  misgivings  at  the 
recollection  of  my  old  school-fellow  yelling  like 
mad.  Who  cares?  Let  us  try  for  all  that:  for- 
tune favours  the  brave!  Besides,  we  will  make 
one  prudent  condition  from  which  I  shall  never 
depart :  no  one  but  myself  shall  come  near  the  table. 
If  an  accident  happen,  I  shall  be  the  only  one  to 
suffer;  and,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  worth  a  burn  or 
two  to  make  acquaintance  with  oxygen. 

Two  o'clock  strikes,  and  my  pupils  enter  the 
class-room.  I  purposely  exaggerate  the  likelihood 
of  danger.  They  are  all  to  stay  on  their  benches 
and  not  stir.  This  is  agreed.  I  have  plenty  of 
elbow-room.  There  is  no  one  by  me,  except  my 
acolyte,  standing  by  my  side,  ready  to  help  me 
when  the  time  comes.  The  others  look  on  in  pro- 
found silence,  reverent  towards  the  unknown. 

Soon  the  bubbles  come  "  gloo-glooing  "  through 
the  water  in  the  bell-jar.  Can  it  be  my  gas?  My 
91 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

heart  beats  with  excitement.  Can  I  have  succeeded 
without  any  trouble  at  the  first  attempt?  We  will 
see.  A  candle  blown  out  that  moment  and  still 
retaining  a  red  tip  to  its  wick  is  lowered  by  a  wire 
into  a  small  test-jar  filled  with  my  product.  Capi- 
tal! The  candle  lights  with  a  little  explosion  and 
burns  with  extraordinary  brilliancy.  It  is.  oxygen 
right  enough. 

The  moment  is  a  solemn  one.  My  audience  is 
astounded  and  so  am  I,  but  more  at  my  own  suc- 
cess than  at  the  relighted  candle.  A  puff  of  vain- 
glory rises  to  my  brow ;  I  feel  the  fire  of  enthusiasm 
run  through  my  veins.  But  I  say  nothing  of  these 
inner  sensations.  Before  the  boys'  eyes,  the  master 
must  appear  an  old  hand  at  the  things  he  teaches. 
What  would  the  young  rascals  think  of  me  if 
I  allowed  them  to  suspect  my  surprise,  if  they 
knew  that  I  myself  am  beholding  the  marvellous 
subject  of  my  demonstration  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life?  I  should  lose  their  confidence,  I  should 
sink  to  the  level  of  a  mere  pupil. 

Sursum  cor  da!  Let  us  go  on  as  if  chemistry 
were  a  familiar  thing  to  me.  It  is  the  turn  of 
the  steel  ribbon,  an  old  watch-spring  rolled  cork- 
screw-fashion and  furnished  with  a  bit  of  tinder. 
With  this  simple  lighted  bait,  the  steel  should  take 
fire  in  a  jar  filled  with  my  gas.  And  it  does  burn; 
it  becomes  a  splendid  firework,  with  cracklings  and 
a  blaze  of  sparks  and  a  cloud  of  rust  that  tarnishes 
the  jar.  From  the  end  of  the  fiery  coil  a  red  drop 
breaks  off  at  intervals,  shoots  quivering  through  the 
layer  of  water  left  at  the  bottom  of  the  vessel 
92 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

and  embeds  itself  in  the  glass  which  has  suddenly 
grown  soft.  This  metallic  tear,  with  its  indomit- 
able heat,  makes  every  one  of  us  shudder.  They 
stamp  and  cheer  and  applaud.  The  timid  ones 
place  their  hands  before  their  faces  and  dare  not 
look  except  through  their  ringers.  My  audience 
exults;  and  I  myself  triumph.  Ha,  my  friend,  isn't 
it  grand,  this  chemistry! 

All  of  us  have  red-letter  days  in  our  lives.  Some, 
the  practical  men,  have  been  successful  in  business; 
they  have  made  money  and  hold  their  heads  high 
in  consequence.  Others,  the  thinkers,  have  gained 
ideas;  they  have  opened  a  new  account  in  the  ledger 
of  nature  and  silently  taste  the  hallowed  joys  of 
truth.  One  of  my  great  days  was  that  of  my  first 
acquaintance  with  oxygen.  On  that  day,  when  my 
class  was  over  and  all  the  materials  put  back  in 
their  place,  I  felt  myself  grow  several  inches  taller. 
An  untrained  workman,  I  had  shown,  with  com- 
plete success,  that  which  was  unknown  to  me  a 
couple  of  hours  before.  No  accident  whatever,  not 
even  the  least  stain  of  acid. 

It  is,  therefore,  not  so  difficult  nor  so  dangerous 
as  the  pitiful  finish  of  the  Saint-Martial  lesson 
might  have  led  me  to  believe.  With  a  vigilant 
eye  and  a  little  prudence,  I  shall  be  able  to  con- 
tinue. The  prospect  is  enchanting. 

And  so,  in  due  season,  comes  hydrogen,  carefully 
contemplated  in  my  reading,  seen  and  reseen  with 
the  eye  of  the  mind  before  being  seen  with  the 
eyes  of  the  body.  I  delight  my  little  rascals  by 
making  the  hydrogen-flame  sing  in  a  glass  tube, 
93 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

which  trickles  with  the  drops  of  water  resulting 
from  the  combustion;  I  make  them  jump  with  the 
explosions  of  the  thunderous  mixture.  Later,  I 
show  them,  with  the  same  invariable  success,  the 
splendours  of  phosphorus,  the  violent  powers  of 
chlorine,  the  loathsome  smells  of  sulphur,  the  met- 
amorphoses of  carbon,  and  so  on.  In  short,  in  a 
series  of  lessons,  the  principal  non-metallic  elements 
and  their  compounds  are  passed  in  review  during 
the  course  of  the  year. 

The  thing  was  bruited  abroad.  Fresh  pupils 
came  to  me,  attracted  by  the  marvels  of  the  school. 
Some  more  places  were  laid  in  the  dining-hall; 
and  the  principal,  who  was  more  interested  in  the 
profits  on  his  beans  and  bacon  than  in  chemistry, 
congratulated  me  on  this  accession  of  boarders.1 

However,  we  must  make  it  clear,  without 
wishing  in  any  way  to  belittle  the  importance 
or  the  magical  results  of  chemistry,  that  the 
latter  was  not  the  only  attraction  of  the 
young  schoolmaster's  teaching,  any  more  than 
it  was  the  sole  subject  on  his  programme. 

Among  the  other  subjects  taught,  one  in 
especial  had  the  power  of  interesting  master 
and  pupil  alike: 

This  was  open-air  geometry,  practical  surveying. 
The  College  had  none  of  the  necessary  outfit;  but, 
with  my  fat  pay — seven  hundred  francs  a  year,  if 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  332-336.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
xix.,  "  A  Memorable  Lesson." 

94 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

you  please! — I  could  not  hesitate  over  the  expense. 
A  surveyor's  chain  and  stakes,  arrows,  level,  square, 
and  compass  were  bought  with  my  money.  A 
microscopic  graphometer,  not  much  larger  than  the 
palm  of  one's  hand  and  costing  perhaps  five  francs, 
was  provided  by  the  establishment.  There  was  no 
tripod  to  it;  and  I  had  one  made.  In  short,  my 
equipment  was  complete. 

And  so,  when  May  came,  once  every  week  we 
left  the  gloomy  schoolroom  for  the  fields.  It  was 
a  regular  holiday.  The  boys  disputed  for  the  hon- 
our of  carrying  the  stakes,  divided  into  bundles  of 
three;  and  more  than  one  shoulder,  as  we  walked 
through  the  town,  felt  the  reflected  glory  of  those 
erudite  rods.  I  myself — why  conceal  the  fact? — 
was  not  without  a  certain  satisfaction  as  I  piously 
carried  that  most  delicate  and  precious  apparatus, 
the  historic  five-franc  graphometer.  The  scene  of 
operations  was  an  unfilled,  flinty  plain,  a  harmas, 
as  we  call  it  in  the  district.  Here,  no  curtain 
of  green  hedges  or  shrubs  prevented  me  from  keep- 
ing an  eye  upon  my  staff;  here — an  indispensable 
condition — I  had  not  the  irresistible  temptation  of 
the  unripe  apricots  to  fear  for  my  scholars.  The 
plain  stretched  far  and  wide,  covered  with  nothing 
but  flowering  thyme  and  rounded  pebbles.  There 
was  ample  scope  for  every  imaginable  polygon; 
trapezes  and  triangles  could  be  combined  in  all 
sorts  of  ways.  The  inaccessible  distances  had  am- 
ple elbow-room;  and  there  was  even  an  old  ruin, 
once  a  pigeon-house,  that  lent  its  perpendicular  to 
the  graphometer's  performances. 
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The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

These  exercises  in  open-air  geometry, 
which  had  their  charm,  discounted  before- 
hand, had  also  their  delightful  surprises  and 
unexpected  consequences  which  place  them 
among  the  happiest  experiences  of  the  life 
which  we  are  describing: 

Well,  from  the  very  first  day,  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  something  suspicious.  If  I  sent  one 
of  the  boys  to  plant  a  stake,  I  would  see  him  stop 
frequently  on  his  way,  bend  down,  stand  up  again, 
look  about  and  stoop  once  more,  neglecting  his 
straight  line  and  his  signals.  Another,  who  was 
told  to  pick  up  the  arrows,  would  forget  the  iron 
pin  and  take  up  a  pebble  instead ;  and  a  third, 
deaf  to  the  measurements  of  angles,  would  crumble 
a  clod  of  earth  between  his  fingers.  Most  of  them 
were  caught  licking  a  bit  of  straw.  The  polygon 
came  to  a  full  stop,  the  diagonals  suffered.  What 
could  the  mystery  be? 

I  inquired;  and  everything  was  explained.  A 
born  searcher  and  observer,  the  scholar  had  long 
known  what  the  master  had  not  yet  heard  of, 
namely,  that  there  was  a  big  black  Bee  who  made 
clay  nests  on  the  pebbles  of  the  harmas.  These 
nests  contained  honey ;  and  my  surveyors  used  to 
open  them  and  empty  the  cells  with  a  straw.  The 
honey,  although  rather  strong-flavoured,  was  most 
acceptable.  I  acquired  a  taste  for  it  myself  and 
joined  the  nest-hunters,  putting  off  the  polygon  till 
later.  It  was  thus  that  I  first  saw  Reaumur's 
96 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

Mason  Bee,1  knowing  nothing  of  her  history  and 
nothing  of  her  historian. 

The  magnificent  Bee  herself,  with  her  dark-violet 
wings  and  black-velvet  raiment,  her  rustic  edifices 
on  the  sun-blistered  pebbles  amid  the  thyme,  her 
honey,  providing  a  diversion  from  the  severities  of 
the  compass  and  the  square,  all  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  my  mind;  and  I  wanted  to  know  more 
than  I  had  learnt  from  the  schoolboys,  which  was 
just  how  to  rob  the  cells  of  their  honey  with  a 
straw.  As  it  happened,  my  bookseller  had  a  gor- 
geous work  on  insects  for  sale.  It  was  called  His- 
toire  naturelle  des  animaux  articules,  by  de  Castel- 
nau,  E.  Blanchard,  and  Lucas,  and  boasted  a  multi- 
tude of  most  attractive  illustrations ;  but  the  price 
of  it,  the  price  of  it!  No  matter:  was  not  my 
splendid  income  supposed  to  cover  everything,  food 
for  the  mind  as  well  as  food  for  the  body?  Any- 
thing extra  that  I  gave  to  the  one  I  could  save 
upon  the  other;  a  method  of  balancing  painfully 
familiar  to  those  who  look  to  science  for  their  live- 
lihood. The  purchase  was  effected.  That  day  my 

1  Chalicodoma,  meaning  a  house  of  pebbles,  concrete 
or  mortar,  would  be  a  most  satisfactory  title,  were  it  not 
that  it  has  an  odd  sound  to  any  one  unfamiliar  with 
Greek.  The  name  is  given  to  bees  who  build  their  cells 
with  materials  similar  to  those  which  we  employ  for  our 
own  dwellings.  The  work  of  these  insects  is  masonry; 
only  it  is  turned  out  by  a  rustic  mason  more  used  to 
hard  clay  than  to  hewn  stone.  Reaumur,  who  knew  noth- 
ing of  scientific  classification — a  fact  which  makes  many 
of  his  papers  very  difficult  to  understand — named  the 
worker  after  her  work  and  called  our  builders  in  dried 
clay  Mason  Bees,  which  describes  them  exactly. 

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The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

professional  emoluments  were  severely  strained :  I 
devoted  a  month's  salary  to  the  acquisition  of  the 
book.  I  had  to  resort  to  miracles  of  economy  for 
some  time  to  come  before  making  up  the  enormous 
deficit. 

The  book  was  devoured ;  there  is  no  other  word 
for  it.  In  it  I  learnt  the  name  of  my  black  Bee; 
I  read  for  the  first  time  various  details  of  the  habits 
of  insects;  I  found,  surrounded  in  my  eyes  with 
a  sort  of  halo,  the  revered  names  of  Reaumur,  Hu- 
ber,  and  Leon  Dufour;  and,  while  I  turned  over 
the  pages  for  the  hundredth  time,  a  voice  within  me 
seemed  to  whisper: 

"  You  also  shall  be  of  their  company !  "  * 

1  Souvenirs,  l.,  pp.  278-280.  The  Mason  Bees,  chap,  i., 
"The  Mason  Bee." 


98 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SCHOOLMASTER:  CARPENTRAS 
(CONTINUED) 

TF  he  had  hearkened  only  to  his  tastes,  the 
-*•  young  schoolmaster  of  Carpentras  would 
have  devoted  to  the  world  of  animals  all  the 
time  that  was  not  taken  up  by  his  pupils.  But 
his  profession  itself  and  the  requirements  of 
his  future  prevented  him  from  following  the 
dominant  attraction  unchecked.  He  had 
formed  a  resolve  "  to  raise  himself  above 
the  level  of  the  primary  school,  which  at  that 
time  barely  fed  its  teachers,"  and  to  make  a 
place  for  himself  in  the  ranks  of  secondary 
instruction.  He  had,  therefore,  to  renounce 
his  natural  history,  since  that  as  yet  had  no 
place  in  the  curriculum,  and  he  had  to  take 
up  mathematics. 

So  we  see  him  submerged  in  conic  sections 
and  the  differential  and  integral  calculus, 
without  a  guide,  without  advice,  confronted 
for  days  on  end  by  some  obscure  difficulty 
which  tenacious  meditation  eventually  robbed 
of  its  mystery.  Mathematics,  however, 
99 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

formed  only  the  first  part  of  his  programme, 
which  comprised  also  physics  and  chemistry. 
These,  no  doubt,  were  less  abstruse  sciences, 
but  the  necessary  equipment  was  also  less 
simple.  He  needed  a  laboratory;  he  could 
not  run  to  the  expense  of  one;  so  he  made 
one,  an  "  impossible  "  one,  by  force  of  in- 
dustry. 

In  this  desperate  struggle  what  became  of 
the  favourite  branch  of  science  of  this  great 
nature-lover?  It  was  necessarily  sacrificed. 

"  I  reprimanded  myself,"  he  says,  "  at  the 
slightest  longing  for  emancipation,  fearing  to 
let  myself  be  seduced  by  some  new  grass, 
some  unknown  beetle.  1  did  violence  to  my- 
self. My  books  on  natural  history  were  con- 
demned to  oblivion,  relegated  to  the  bottom 
of  a  trunk." 

A  fine  lesson  in  perseverance  in  work  and 
sacrifice,  which  all  those  who  are  inspired  by 
some  noble  desire  or  merely  by  some  legiti- 
mate ambition  will  find  useful  and  comfort- 
ing to  contemplate : 

"  Qui  studet  optatam  cursu  contingere  metam 
Multa  tulit  fecitque  puer,  sudavit  et  alsit ; 
Abstinuit  venere  et  vino."  * 

But  this  matter  must  be  expounded  in 
greater  detail,  were  it  only  to  confirm  the 

1  HORACE,  Ars  Poetica,  412. 
100 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

courage  of  other  students  disinherited  by  for- 
tune, reduced  as  was  Fabre  to  shaping  them- 
selves in  the  "  harsh  school  of  isolation." 
They  will  witness  miracles  of  perseverance; 
and  they  will  realise  that  opportunities  of  ex- 
ercising the  mind  and  strengthening  the  will 
are  seldom  lacking  to  those  who  understand 
how  to  seize  them. 

When  I  left  the  Normal  School,  my  stock  of 
mathematics  was  of  the  scantiest  (writes  Fabre). 
How  to  extract  a  square  root,  how  to  calculate  and 
prove  the  surface  of  a  sphere:  these  represented  to 
me  the  culminating  points  of  the  subject.  Those 
terrible  logarithms,  when  I  happened  to  open  a 
table  of  them,  made  my  head  swim,  with  their 
columns  of  figures;  actual  fright,  not  unmixed  with 
respect,  overwhelmed  me  on  the  very  threshold  of 
that  arithmetical  cave.  Of  algebra  I  had  no  knowl- 
edge whatever.  I  had  heard  the  name;  and  the 
syllables  represented  to  my  poor  brain  the  whole 
whirling  legion  of  the  abstruse. 

Besides,  I  felt  no  inclination  to  decipher  the 
alarming  hieroglyphics.  They  made  one  of  those 
indigestible  dishes  which  we  confidently  extol  with- 
out touching  them.  I  greatly  prefer  a  fine  line  of 
Virgil,  whom  I  was  now  beginning  to  understand ; 
and  I  should  have  been  surprised  indeed  had  any 
one  told  me  that,  for  long  years  to  come,  I  should 
be  an  enthusiastic  student  of  the  formidable 
science.  Good  fortune  procured  me  my  first  lesson 
IOI 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

in    algebra,    a   lesson   given    and    not    received,    of 
course. 

A  young  man  of  about  my  own  age  came  to  me 
and  asked  me  to  teach  him  algebra.  He  was  pre- 
paring for  his  examination  as  a  civil  engineer;  and 
he  came  to  me  because,  ingenuous  youth  that  he  was, 
he  took  me  for  a  well  of  learning.  The  guileless 
applicant  was  very  far  out  in  his  reckoning. 

His  request  gave  me  a  shock  of  surprise,  which 
was  forthwith  repressed  on  reflection : 

"  I  give  algebra  lessons?  "  said  I  to  myself.  "  It 
would  be  madness:  I  don't  know  anything  about 
it!" 

And  I  left  it  at  that  for  a  moment  or  two,  think- 
ing hard,  drawn  now  this  way,  now  that  by  my 
indecision : 

"  Shall  I  accept?  Shall  I  refuse?  "  continued  the 
inner  voice. 

Pooh,  let's  accept!  An  heroic  method  of  learning 
to  swim  is  to  leap  boldly  into  the  sea.  Let  us  hurl 
ourselves  head  first  into  the  algebraical  gulf;  and 
perhaps  the  imminent  danger  of  drowning  will  call 
forth  efforts  capable  of  bringing  me  to  land.  I 
know  nothing  of  what  he  wants.  It  makes  no  dif- 
ference: let's  go  ahead  and  plunge  into  the  mystery. 
I  shall  learn  by  teaching. 

It  was  a  fine  courage  that  drove  me  full  tilt  into 
a  province  which  I  had  not  yet  thought  of  entering. 
My  twenty-year-old  confidence  was  an  incomparable 
lever. 

"  Very  well,"  I  replied.     "  Come  the  day  after 
to-morrow  at  five,  and  we'll  begin." 
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The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

This  twenty-four  hours'  delay  concealed  a  plan. 
It  secured  me  the  respite  of  a  day,  the  blessed  Thurs- 
day, which  would  give  me  time  to  collect  my  forces. 

Thursday  comes.  The  sky  is  grey  and  cold.  In 
this  horrid  weather  a  grate  well-filled  with  coke 
has  its  charms.  Let's  warm  ourselves  and  think. 

Well,  my  boy,  you've  landed  yourself  in  a  nice 
predicament!  How  will  you  manage  to-morrow? 
With  a  book,  plodding  all  through  the  night,  if  nec- 
essary, you  might  scrape  up  something  resembling  a 
lesson,  just  enough  to  fill  the  dread  hour  more  or 
less.  Then  you  could  see  about  the  next:  suffi- 
cient for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  But  you 
haven't  the  book.  And  it's  no  use  running  out  to 
the  bookshop.  Algebraical  treatises  are  not  current 
wares.  You'll  have  to  send  for  one,  which  will  take 
a  fortnight  at  least.  And  I've  promised  for  to- 
morrow, for  to-morrow  certain!  Another  argu- 
ment and  one  that  admits  of  no  reply:  funds  are 
low;  my  last  pecuniary  resources  lie  in  the  corner 
of  a  drawer.  I  count  the  money:  it  amounts  to 
twelve  sous,  which  is  not  enough. 

Must  I  cry  off?  Rather  not!  One  resource 
suggests  itself:  a  highly  improper  one,  I  admit,  not 
far  removed,  indeed,  from  larceny.  '  O  quiet  paths 
of  algebra,  you  are  my  excuse  for  this  venial  sin! 
Let  me  confess  the  temporary  embezzlement. 

Life  at  my  College  is  more  or  less  cloistered.  In 
return  for  a  modest  payment,  most  of  us  masters 
are  lodged  in  the  building;  and  we  take  our  meals 
at  the  principal's  table.  The  science-master,  who 
is  the  big  gun  of  the  staff  and  lives  in  the  town, 
103 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

has  nevertheless,  like  ourselves,  his  own  two  cells, 
in  addition  to  a  balcony,  or  leads,  where  the  chemi- 
cal preparations  give  forth  their  suffocating  gases 
in  the  open  air.  For  this  reason,  he  finds  it  more 
convenient  to  hold  his  class  here  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  year.  The  boys  come  to  these  rooms  in 
winter,  in  front  of  a  grate  stuffed  full  of  coke,  like 
mine,  and  there  find  a  blackboard,  a  pneumatic 
trough,  a  mantelpiece  covered  with  glass  receivers, 
panoplies  of  bent  tubes  on  the  walls  and,  lastly,  a 
certain  cupboard  in  which  I  remember  seeing  a  row 
of  books,  the  oracles  consulted  by  the  master  in  the 
course  of  his  lessons. 

"  Among  those  books,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  there 
is  sure  to  be  one  on  algebra.  To  ask  the  owner 
for  the  loan  of  it  does  not  appeal  to  me.  My 
amiable  colleague  would  receive  me  superciliously 
and  laugh  at  my  ambitious  aims.  I  am  sure  he 
would  refuse  my  request." 

I  decide  to  help  myself  to  the  book  which  I 
should  never  get  by  asking.  This  is  the  half-holi- 
day. The  science-master  will  not  put  in  an  appear- 
ance to-day;  and  the  key  of  my  room  is  practically 
the  same  as  his.  I  go,  with  eyes  and  ears  on  the 
alert.  My  key  does  not  quite  fit;  it  sticks  a  little, 
then  goes  in;  and  an  extra  effort  makes  it  turn  in 
the  lock.  The  door  opens.  I  inspect  the  cupboard 
and  find  that  it  does  contain  an  algebra  book,  one 
of  the  big,  fat  books  which  men  used  to  write  in 
those  days,  a  book  nearly  half  a  foot  thick.  My 
legs  give  way  beneath  me.  You  poor  specimen  of 
a  housebreaker,  suppose  you  were  caught  at  it! 
104 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

However,  all  goes  well.  Quick,  let's  lock  the  door 
again,  and  hurry  back  to  our  own  quarters  with  the 
pilfered  volume. 

A  chapter  catches  my  attention  in  the  middle 
of  the  volume;  it  is  headed,  Newton's  Binomial 
Theorem.  The  title  allures  me.  What  can  a 
binomial  theorem  be,  especially  one  whose  author 
is  Newton,  the  great  English  mathematician  who 
weighed  the  worlds?  What  has  the  mechanism  of 
the  sky  to  do  with  this?  Let  us  read  and  seek  for 
enlightenment.  With  my  elbows  on  the  table  and 
my  thumbs  behind  my  ears,  I  concentrate  all  my 
attention. 

I  am  seized  with  astonishment,  for  I  understand! 
There  are  a  certain  number  of  letters,  general  sym- 
bols which  are  grouped  in  all  manner  of  ways, 
taking  their  places  here,  there,  and  elsewhere  by 
turns;  there  are,  as  the  text  tells  me,  arrangements, 
permutations,  and  combinations.  Pen  in  hand,  I 
arrange,  permute,  and  combine.  It  is  a  very  divert- 
ing exercise,  upon  my  word,  a  game  in  which  the 
test  of  the  written  result  confirms  the  anticipations 
of  logic  and  supplements  the  shortcomings  of  one's 
thinking-apparatus. 

"  It  will  be  plain  sailing,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  if 
algebra  is  no  more  difficult  than  this." 

I  was  to  recover  from  the  illusion  later,  when 
the  binomial  theorem,  that  light,  crisp  biscuit,  was 
followed  by  heavier  and  less  digestible  fare.  But, 
for  the  moment,  I  had  no  foretaste  of  the  future 
difficulties,  of  the  pitfalls  in  which  one  becomes 
more  and  more  entangled  the  longer  one  persists 
105 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

in  struggling.  What  a  delightful  afternoon  that 
was,  before  my  fire,  amid  my  permutations  and  com- 
binations! By  the  evening,  I  had  nearly  mastered 
my  subject.  When  the  bell  rang,  at  seven,  to  sum- 
mon us  to  the  common  meal  at  the  principal's  table, 
I  went  downstairs  puffed  up  with  the  joys  of  the 
newly-initiated  neophyte.  I  was  escorted  on  my 
way  by  a,  b,  and  c,  intertwined  in  cunning  gar- 
lands. 

Next  day,  my  pupil  is  there.  Blackboard  and 
chalk,  everything  is  ready.  Not  quite  so  ready 
is  the  master.  I  bravely  broach  my  binomial  the- 
orem. My  hearer  becomes  interested  in  the  com- 
binations of  letters.  Not  for  a  moment  does  he 
suspect  that  I  am  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse 
and  beginning  where  we  ought  to  have  finished. 
I  relieve  the  dryness  of  my  explanations  with  a 
few  little  problems,  so  many  halts  at  which  the 
mind  takes  breath  awhile  and  gathers  strength  for 
fresh  flights. 

We  try  together.  Discreetly,  so  as  to  leave  him 
the  merit  of  the  discovery,  I  shed  a  little  light  upon 
the  path.  The  solution  is  found.  My  pupil  tri- 
umphs; so  do  I,  but  silently,  in  my  inner  con- 
sciousness, which  says: 

"  You  understand,  because  you  succeed  in  mak- 
ing another  understand." 

The  hour  passed  quickly  and  very  pleasantly  for 
both  of  us.  My  young  man  was  contented  when 
he  left  me;  and  I  no  less  so,  for  I  perceived  a  new 
and  original  way  of  learning  things. 

The  ingenious  and  easy  arrangement  of  the  bi- 

106 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

nomial  gave  me  time  to  tackle  my  algebra  book 
from  the  proper  commencement.  In  three  or  four 
days  I  had  rubbed  up  my  weapons.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  said  about  addition  and  subtraction : 
they  were  so  simple  as  to  force  themselves  upon  one 
at  first  sight.  Multiplication  spoilt  things.  There 
was  a  certain  rule  of  signs  which  declared  that 
minus  multiplied  by  minus  made  plus.  How  I 
toiled  over  that  wretched  paradox!  It  would  seem 
that  the  book  did  not  explain  this  subject  clearly, 
or  rather  employed  too  abstract  a  method.  I  read, 
reread,  and  meditated  in  vain :  the  obscure  text  re- 
tained all  its  obscurity.  That  is  the  drawback  of 
books  in  general :  they  tell  you  what  is  printed  in 
them  and  nothing  more.  If  you  fail  to  under- 
stand, they  never  advise  you,  never  suggest  an  at- 
tempt along  another  road  which  might  lead  you 
to  the  light.  The  merest  word  would  sometimes 
be  enough  to  put  you  on  the  right  track;  and  that 
word  the  books,  hide-bound  in  a  regulation  phrase- 
ology, never  give  you. 

My  pupil  was  bound  to  suffer  the  effects.  After 
an  attempt  at  an  explanation  in  which  I  made  the 
most  of  the  few  gleams  that  reached  me,  I  asked 
him: 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

It  was  a  futile  question,  but  useful  for  gaining 
time.  Myself  not  understanding,  I  was  convinced 
beforehand  that  he  did  not  understand  either. 

"  No,"  he  replied,   accusing  himself,  perhaps,  in 
his  simple  mind,  of  possessing  a  brain  incapable  of 
taking  in  those  transcendental  verities. 
107 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

"  Let  us  try  another  method." 

And  I  start  again  this  way  and  that  way  and 
yet  another  way.  My  pupil's  eyes  serve  as  my 
thermometer  and  tell  me  of  the  progress  of  my 
efforts.  A  blink  of  satisfaction  announces  my  suc- 
cess. I  have  struck  home,  I  have  found  the  joint 
in  the  armour.  The  product  of  minus  multiplied 
by  minus  surrenders  its  mysteries  to  us.1 

The  study  of  algebra  was  pursued  in  this 
fashion  without  any  undue  impediments  as 
far  as  the  pupil  was  concerned,  but  at  the 
cost  of  a  prodigious  exertion  of  patience  and 
penetration  on  the  part  of  the  primary  school- 
master who  was  so  venturesome  as  to  act  as 
a  professor  of  the  higher  mathematics.  Au- 
daces  fortuna  juvat.  The  young  schoolmas- 
ter had  not  too  greatly  presumed  on  his 
powers.  His  pupil  was  accepted  upon  exami- 
nation, and  he  himself  was  able  to  return  the 
book  to  its  place,  having  completely  assimi- 
lated its  contents. 

But  he  had  made  too  good  a  start  to  stop 
midway.  He  was  burning  with  eagerness  to 
attack  geometry,  which  was  not  so  unfamiliar 
to  him,  but  of  which  he  had  yet  a  great  deal 
to  learn:  "At  my  normal  school,"  writes 

1  Souvenirs,  IX,  pp.  164-170.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
xii.,  "Mathematical  Memories:  The  Binomial  Theo- 
rem." 

108 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

Fabre,  "  I  had  learnt  a  little  elementary 
geometry  under  a  master.  From  the  first 
few  lessons  onwards,  I  rather  enjoyed  the 
subject.  I  divined  in  it  a  guide  for  one's 
reasoning  faculties  through  the  thickets  of 
the  imagination;  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
search  after  truth  that  did  not  involve  too 
much  stumbling  on  the  way,  because  each 
step  forward  is  well  braced  by  the  step  al- 
ready taken.  We  start  from  a  brilliantly- 
lighted  spot  and  gradually  travel  farther  and 
farther  into  the  darkness,  which  kindles  into 
radiance  as  it  sheds  fresh  beams  of  light  for 
a  higher  ascent. 

It  is  an  excellent  thing  to  regard  geometry 
as  what  it  really  is,  before  all  things:  a  su- 
perb intellectual  gymnastic.  By  forcing  the 
mind  to  proceed  from  the  known  to  the  un- 
known, always  explaining  what  follows  in 
the  light  of  what  has  gone  before,  it  exer- 
cises it  and  familiarises  it  with  the  logical 
laws  of  thought.  To  be  sure,  "  it  does  not 
give  us  ideas,  those  delicate  flowers  which 
unfold  one  knows  not  how,  and  are  not  able 
to  flourish  in  every  soil,"  but  it  teaches  us 
to  present  them  in  a  lucid  and  orderly  man- 
ner. Fabre  tells  us: 

At  that  time,  the  College  in  which,  two  years 
before,  I  had  made  my  first  appearance  as  a  teacher 
109 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

had  just  halved  the  size  of  its  classes  and  largely 
increased  its  staff.  The  newcomers  all  lived  in  the 
building,  like  myself,  and  we  had  our  meals  in  com- 
mon at  the  principal's  table.  I  had  as  a  neigh- 
bour, in  the  next  cell  to  mine,  a  retired  quarter- 
master who,  weary  of  barrack-life,  had  taken  refuge 
in  education.  When  in  charge  of  the  books  of 
his  company,  he  had  become  more  or  less  familiar 
with  figures;  and  it  was  now  his  ambition  to  take 
a  mathematical  degree.  His  cerebrum  appears  to 
have  hardened  while  he  was  with  his  regiment. 
According  to  my  dear  colleagues,  those  amiable  re- 
tailers of  the  misfortunes  of  others,  he  had  already 
twice  been  plucked.  Stubbornly,  he  returned  to  his 
books  and  exercises,  refusing  to  be  daunted  by  two 
reverses. 

It  was  not  that  he  was  allured  by  the  beauties 
of  mathematics:  far  from  it;  but  the  step  to  which 
he  aspired  favoured  his  plans.  He  hoped  to  have 
his  own  boarders  and  dispense  butter  and  vege- 
tables to  lucrative  purpose. 

I  had  often  surprised  our  friend  sitting,  in  the 
evening,  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table  and  his  head  between  his  hands,  medi- 
tating at  great  length  in  front  of  a  big  exercise- 
book  crammed  with  cabalistic  signs.  From  time 
to  time,  when  an  idea  came  to  him,  he  would  take 
his  pen  and  hastily  put  down  a  line  of  writing 
wherein  letters,  large  and  small,  were  grouped  with- 
out any  grammatical  sense.  The  letters  x  and  y 
often  recurred,  intermingled  with  figures.  Every 
row  ended  with  the  sign  of  equality  and  a  naught. 
110 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

Next  came  more  reflection,  with  closed  eyes,  and 
a  fresh  row  of  letters  arranged  in  a  different  order 
and  likewise  followed  by  a  naught.  Page  after 
page  was  filled  in  this  queer  fashion,  each  line  wind- 
ing up  with  o. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  all  those  rows  of 
figures  amounting  to  zero?"  I  asked  him  one  day. 

The  mathematician  gave  me  a  leery  look,  picked 
up  in  barracks.  A  sarcastic  droop  in  the  corner 
of  his  eye  showed  how  he  pitied  my  ignorance. 
My  colleague  of  the  many  naughts  did  not,  how- 
ever, take  an  unfair  advantage  of  his  superiority. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  working  at  analytical 
geometry. 

The  phrase  had  a  strange  effect  upon  me.  I 
ruminated  silently  to  this  purpose:  there  was  a 
higher  geometry,  which  you  learnt  more  partic- 
ularly with  combinations  of  letters  in  which  x  and 
y  played  a  prominent  part.  How  would  the  alpha- 
betical signs,  arranged  first  in  one  and  then  in 
another  manner,  give  an  image  of  actual  things, 
an  image  visible  to  the  eyes  of  the  mind  alone? 
It  beat  me. 

"  I  shall  have  to  learn  analytical  geometry  some 
day,"  I  said.  "  Will  you  help  me  ?" 

"  I'm  quite  willing,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile 
in  which  I  read  his  lack  of 'confidence  in  my  deter- 
mination. 

No  matter:  we  struck  a  bargain  that  same  eve- 
ning. We  would  together  break  up  the  stubble 
of  algebra  and  analytical  geometry,  the  foundation 
of  the  mathematical  degree;  we  would  make  corn- 
Ill 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

mon  stock:  he  would  bring  long  hours  of  calcula- 
tion, I  my  youthful  ardour.  We  would  begin  as 
soon  as  I  had  finished  with  my  arts  degree,  which 
was  my  main  preoccupation  for  the  moment. 

We  begin  in  my  room,  in  front  of  a  blackboard. 
After  a  few  evenings,  prolonged  into  the  peaceful 
watches  of  the  night,  I  become  aware,  to  my  great 
surprise,  that  my  teacher,  the  past  master  in  these 
hieroglyphics,  is  really,  more  often  than  not,  my 
pupil.  He  does  not  see  the  combinations  of  the 
abscissae  and  ordinates  very  clearly.  I  make  bold 
to  take  the  chalk  in  hand  myself,  to  seize  the  rud- 
der of  our  algebraical  boat.  I  comment  on  the 
book,  interpret  it  in  my  own  fashion,  expound  the 
text,  sound  the  reefs,  until  daylight  comes  and 
leads  us  to  the  haven  of  the  solution.  Besides, 
the  logic  is  so  irresistible,  it  is  all  such  easy  going 
and  so  lucid  that  often  one  seems  to  be  remem- 
bering rather  than  learning. 

And  so  we  proceed,  with  our  positions  reversed. 
My  comrade — I  can  now  allow  myself  to  speak 
of  him  on  equal  terms — my  comrade  listens,  sug- 
gests objections,  raises  difficulties  which  we  try  to 
solve  in  unison. 

After  fifteen  months  of  this  exercise,  we  went 
up  together  for  our  examination  at  Montpellier ; 
and  both  of  us  received  our  degrees  as  bachelors 
of  mathematical  science.  My  companion  was  a 
wreck;  I,  on  the  other  hand,  had  refreshed  my 
mind  with  analytical  geometry.1 

''•Souvenirs,  ix,  pp.   172-183   passim.     The  Life  of  the 
112 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

The  quartermaster  declared  himself  satis- 
fied with  this  achievement.  Analytic  geome- 
try did  not  precisely  strike  him  as  a  recrea- 
tion. He  knew  enough  of  it  for  what  he  had 
to  do ;  he  did  not  want  to  know  any  more. 

In  vain  I  hold  out  the  glittering  prospect  of 
a  new  degree,  that  of  licentiate  of  mathematical 
science,  which  would  lead  us  to  the  splendours  of 
the  higher  mathematics  and  initiate  us  into  the 
mechanics  of  the  heavens:  I  cannot  prevail  upon 
him,  cannot  make  him  share  my  audacity.  He 
calls  it  a  mad  scheme,  which  will  exhaust  us  and 
come  to  nothing.  I  am  free  to  go  and  break  my 
neck  in  distant  countries;  he  is  more  prudent  and 
will  not  follow  me. 

My  partner,  therefore,  leaves  me.  Henceforth, 
I  am  alone,  alone  and  wretched.  There  is  no  one 
left  with  whom  I  can  sit  up  and  thresh  out  the 
subject  in  exhilarating  discussion.1 

And  now  let  us  note  the  words  and  the 
emotions  with  which  he  approaches  for  the 
last  time,  in  his  declining  years,  this  town 
of  Carpentras,  where,  from  his  earliest 


Fly,  chap,  xii.,  "Mathematical  Memories:    The  Binomial 
Theorem." 

1  Souvenirs,  IX.,  p.  184  passim.  The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap,  xii.,  "Mathematical  Memories:  The  Binomial  Theo- 
rem." 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

youth,  he  suffered  so  greatly  and  laboured  so 
valiantly: 

Once  more,  here  am  I,  somewhat  late  in  life, 
at  Carpentras,  whose  rude  Gallic  name  sets  the 
fool  smiling  and  the  scholar  thinking.  Dear  lit- 
tle town  where  I  spent  my  twentieth  year  and  left 
the  first  bits  of  my  fleece  upon  life's  bushes,  my  visit 
of  to-day  is  a  pilgrimage;  I  have  come  to  lay  my 
eyes  once  more  upon  the  place  which  saw  the  birth 
of  the  liveliest  impressions  of  my  early  days.  I 
bow,  in  passing,  to  the  old  College  where  I  tried 
my  prentice  hand  as  a  teacher.  Its  appearance  is 
unchanged ;  it  still  looks  like  a  penitentiary.  Those 
were  the  views  of  our  mediaeval  educational  sys- 
tem. To  the  gaiety  and  activity  of  boyhood,  which 
were  considered  unwholesome,  it  applied  the  rem- 
edy of  narrowness,  melancholy,  and  gloom.  Its 
houses  of  instruction  were,  above  all,  houses  of 
correction.  The  freshness  of  Virgil  was  interpreted 
in  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  a  prison.  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  yard  between  four  high  walls,  a  sort 
of  bear-pit,  where  the  scholars  fought  for  room 
for  their  games  under  the  spreading  branches  of 
a  plane-tree.  All  around  were  cells  that  looked 
like  horse-boxes,  without  light  or  air;  those  were 
the  class-rooms.  I  speak  in  the  past  tense,  for 
doubtless  the  present  day  has  seen  the  last  of  this 
academic  destitution. 

Here  is  the  tobacco-shop  where,  on  Wednesday 
evening,  coming  out  of  the  college,  I  would  buy  on 
credit  the  wherewithal  to  fill  my  pipe  and  thus 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

to  celebrate  on  the  eve  the  joys  of  the  morrow, 
that  blessed  Thursday  1  which  I  considered  so  well 
employed  in  solving  difficult  equations,  experiment- 
ing with  new  chemical  reagents,  collecting  and 
identifying  my  plants.  I  made  my  timid  request, 
pretending  to  have  come  out  without  my  money, 
for  it  is  hard  for  a  self-respecting  man  to  admit 
that  he  is  penniless.  My  candour  appears  to  have 
inspired  some  little  confidence ;  and  I  obtained  credit, 
an  unprecedented  thing,  with  the  representative  of 
the  revenue. 

How  I  should  love  to  see  that  room  again  where 
I  pored  over  differentials  and  integrals,  where  I 
calmed  my  poor  burning  head  by  gazing  at  Mont 
Ventoux,  whose  summit  held  in  store  for  my  com- 
ing expedition  2  those  denizens  of  Arctic  climes,  the 
saxifrage  and  the  poppy!  And  to  see  my  familiar 
friend,  the  blackboard,  which  I  hired  at  five  francs 
a  year  from  a  crusty  joiner,  that  board  whose  value 
I  paid  many  times  over,  though  I  could  never  buy 
it  outright,  for  want  of  the  necessary  cash!  The 
conic  sections  which  I  described  on  that  black- 
board, the  learned  hieroglyphics !  3 

Fabre  has  somewhere  written,  lamenting 
the  dearth  of  family  reminiscences  which 

1  The  weekly  half-holiday  in  the  French  schools. — A.  T. 
DE  M. 

2  The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  xi.,  M  An  Ascent  of  Mont 
Ventoux." 

3  Souvenirs,    in.,    pp.    191-193.      The  Life    of   the   Fly, 
chap,   iv.,  ".Larval   Dimorphism." 

"5 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

does  not  enable  him  to  go  back  beyond  the 
second  generation  of  his  ancestry,  this  touch- 
ing passage,  full  of  modesty  and  filial  feel- 
ing: "The  populace  has  no  history.  Stran- 
gled by  the  present,  it  cannot  give  its  mind 
to  cherishing  the  memories  of  the  past."  Yet 
how  instructive  would  those  records  be. 

Let  us  bow  our  heads  before  this  child  of 
the  peasantry  who  labours  so  unremittingly 
and  drives  so  deep  a  furrow;  let  us  bow  our 
heads  before  this  humble  primary  school- 
master who  seeks  to  uplift  himself,  not  as 
so  many  have  done,  by  futile  political  agi- 
tation or  the  criminal  fatuities  of  irreligion, 
but  solely  by  virtue  of  knowledge  and  per- 
sonal worth. 

We  shall  see  later  on  with  what  vindictive 
energy  Fabre  scourges  the  pseudo-scientists, 
"  hateful  malefactors,"  maufatan  de  malur, 
who,  in  the  name  of  a  false  science,  rob 
men's  souls  of  the  true  and  ancient  Chris- 
tian faith,  thereby  leading  society  toward 
the  most  terrible  catastrophes.  For  the  mo- 
ment our  only  desire  is  to  do  homage  to  our 
worthy  schoolmasters  in  the  person  of  one 
of  their  old  comrades  who  has  become  one  of 
our  greatest  national  glories.  There  are 
others,  too,  among  us  who  have  exalted  by 
their  virtues  or  their  talents  the  humble  na- 
116 


The  Schoolmaster:    Carpentras 

ture  of  their  origin  or  their  calling.  Of  such, 
as  every  Frenchman  knows,  to  mention  only 
one  of  the  best  known  and  best  beloved,  is 
the  author  of  the  Poesie  des  Betes,  of  V oix 
rustiques,  of  La  Bonne  Terre,  of  Le  Clocher, 
etc. — Frangois  Fabie,  that  poet  who,  by  his 
original  style,  his  career,  and  his  genius, 
which  has  been  too  much  obscured  by  his 
modesty,  may  in  so  many  respects  be  com- 
pared with  Jean-Henri  Fabre.1  Of  such,  too, 
and  among  the  most  eminent  writers  of  the 
language  d'oc,  is  Antonin  Perbosc,2  who  does 
honour  to  our  primary  schools,  in  one  of 
which  he  is  still  teaching,  by  the  remarkable 
works  of  literature  which  place  him  beside  his 
friend,  the  Abbe  Besson,3  in  the  first  rank  of 
the  Occitanian  Felibrige. 

1 M.  Fabie  was  never  officially  a  schoolmaster,  but  he 
was  trained  as  one,  and  was  a  pupil  at  the  Normal  Col- 
lege at  Rodez. 

2  M.  Perbosc  is  a  schoolmaster  at  Lavilledien  (Tarnet- 
Garonne).     He   has   published   through   Privat   of   Tou- 
louse:    Lo  Got  occitan,  Cansous  del  Got  occitan,  Contes 
populars    Gascons,    Guilhem    de    Tolosa,    Remembransa, 
I'Arada,   etc.,   and   has   repeatedly   been  crowned   by   the 
Academie  des  Jeux  Floraux  of  Toulouse. 

3  M.  Besson   is   also   a   laureate   of   the  Academie   des 
Jeux  Floraux,   and   is   at   present  Canon   of  Rodez.     He 
has  published  through  Carrere  of  Rodez:    Dal  Bres  a  la 
Tounbo,   Bagateletos,   Besucarietos,   Countes  de   la    Tata 
Mannou,  Countes  de  I'Ouncle  Janet,  etc.     This  last  vol- 
ume is  dedicated:    A  mon  Amic  Antouni  Perbosc. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PROFESSOR:  AJACCIO 

T7IRGIL  has  truly  said: 

.  .  .  labor  omnia  vincit 
Improbus. 

Persistent  labour,  in  the  service  of  a  keen 
intelligence,  knows  no  insuperable  obstacles : 
it  always  achieves  its  ends.  Success,  accord- 
ingly, could  not  fail  to  befall  the  intrepid  vir- 
tuosity of  the  youthful  Carpentras  school- 
master. The  degree  of  licentiate  in  the  math- 
ematical sciences  was  won,  like  the  rest,  at 
the  point  of  the  sword,  and  the  valiant  cham- 
pion of  the  cosine  and  the  laboratory  was 
appointed  Professor  of  Physics  and  Chemis- 
try in  the  lycee  of  Ajaccio. 

Here,  by  a  happy  concatenation  of  circum- 
stances, and  under  the  inward  impulsion  of 
the  providential  vocation,  the  destiny  of  the 
famous  entomologist  was  to  be  finally  deter- 
mined. 

In  this  novel  environment,  in  "  this  para- 
118 


The  Professor:    Ajaccio 

disc  of  glorious  Nature,"  everything  stimu- 
lated the  alert  curiosity  of  the  predestined 
biologist;  the  sea,  full  of  marvels,  the  beach, 
where  the  waves  threw  up  such  beautiful 
shells,  the  maquis  of  myrtle,  arbutus,  and  len- 
tisk!  .  .  .  This  time  the  temptation  was  too 
great!  He  surrendered.  His  leisure  was  di- 
vided into  two  parts.  One  was  still  devoted 
to  mathematics,  the  basis  of  his  future  in  the 
university.  The  other  was  already  spent  in 
botanising  and  in  investigating  the  wonders 
of  the  sea. 

What  a  country!  What  magnificent  investiga- 
tions to  be  made!  If  I  had  not  been  obsessed  by 
x  and  y  I  should  have  surrendered  wholly  to  my 
inclinations! 

Meanwhile  Ajaccio  received  the  visit  of  a  fa- 
mous Avignon  botanist,  Requien  *  by  name,  who, 
with  a  box  crammed  with  paper  under  his  arm, 
had  long  been  botanising  all  over  Corsica,  press- 
ing and  drying  specimens  and  distributing  them 
to  his  friends.  We  soon  became  acquainted.  I 
accompanied  him  in  my  free  time  on  his  explora- 
tions, and  never  did  the  master  have  a  more  atten- 
tive disciple.  To  tell  the  truth,  Requien  was  not 
a  man  of  learning  so  much  as  an  enthusiastic  col- 

1  Esprit  Requien  (1788-1851),  a  French  naturalist  and 
collector,  director  of  the  museum  and  botanical  gardens 
at  Avignon  and  author  of  several  works  on  botany  and 
conchology. — A.  T.  DE  M. 

119 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

lector.  Very  few  would  have  felt  capable  of  com- 
peting with  him  when  it  came  to  giving  the  name 
or  the  geographical  distribution  of  a  plant.  A 
blade  of  grass,  a  pad  of  moss,  a  scab  of  lichen, 
a  thread  of  seaweed:  he  knew  them  all.  The 
scientific  name  flashed  across  his  mind  at  once. 
What  an  unerring  memory,  what  a  genius  for  clas- 
sification amid  the  enormous  mass  of  things  ob- 
served! I  stood  aghast  at  it.  I  owe  much  to 
Requien  in  the  domain  of  botany.  Had  death 
spared  him  longer,  I  should  doubtless  have  owed 
more  to  him,  for  his  was  a  generous  heart,  ever 
open  to  the  woes  of  novices. 

In  the  following  year  I  met  Moquin-Tandon,1 
with  whom,  thanks  to  Requien,  I  had  already  ex- 
changed a  few  letters  on  botany.  The  illustrious 
Toulouse  professor  came  to  study  on  the  spot  the 
flora  which  he  proposed  to  describe  systematically. 
When  he  arrived,  all  the  hotel  bedrooms  were  re- 
served for  the  members  of  the  General  Council 
which  had  been  summoned ;  and  I  offered  him  board 
and  lodging:  a  shake-down  in  a  room  overlooking 
the  sea;  fare  consisting  of  lampreys,  turbot,  and 
sea-urchins;  common  enough  dishes  in  that  land  of 
Cockayne,  but  possessing  no  small  attraction  for 
the  naturalist,  because  of  their  novelty.  My  cor- 
dial proposal  tempted  him;  he  yielded  to  my  bland- 

1  Horace  Benedict  Alfred  Moquin-Tandon  (1804-63),  a 
distinguished  naturalist,  for  twenty  years  director  of  the 
botanical  gardens  at  Toulouse.  He  was  commissioned 
by  the  French  Government  in  1850  to  compile  a  flora 
of  Corsica,  and  is  the  author  of  several  important  works 
on  botany  and  zoology. — A.  T.  DE  M. 
I2O 


The  Professor:    Ajaccio 

ishments;  and  there  we  were  for  a  fortnight,  chat- 
ting at  table  de  omni  re  scibili,  after  the  botanical 
excursion  was  over. 

With  Moquin-Tandon  new  vistas  opened  before 
me.  Here  it  was  no  longer  the  case  of  a  nomen- 
clator  with  an  infallible  memory;  he  was  a  natu- 
ralist with  far-reaching  ideas,  a  philosopher  who 
soared  above  petty  details  to  comprehensive  views 
of  life,  a  writer,  a  poet  who  knew  how  to  clothe 
the  naked  truth  in  the  magic  mantle  of  the  glow- 
ing word.  Never  again  shall  I  sit  at  an  intellectual 
feast  like  that: 

"  Leave  your  mathematics,"  he  said.  "  No  one 
will  take  the  least  interest  in  your  formulae.  Get 
to  the  beast,  the  plant;  and,  if,  as  I  believe,  the 
fever  burns  in  your  veins,  you  will  find  men  to 
listen  to  you." 

We  made  an  expedition  to  the  centre  of  the 
island,  to  Monte  Renoso,1  with  which  I  was  ex- 
tremely familiar.  I  made  the  scientist  pick  the 
hoary  everlasting  (Helichrysum  frigidum),  which 
makes  a  wonderful  patch  of  silver;  the  many- 
headed  thrift,  or  mouflon-grass  (Armerla  multiceps), 
which  the  Corsicans  call  erba  muorone;  the  downy 
marguerite  (Leucanthemum  tomosum),  which,  clad 
in  wadding,  shivers  amid  the  snows;  and  many 
other  rarities  dear  to  the  botanist.  Moquin-Tan- 
don was  jubilant.  I,  on  my  side,  was  much  more 
attracted  and  overcome  by  his  words  and  his  enthu- 

XA  mountain  7730  feet  high,  about  twenty-five  miles 
from  Ajaccio. — A.  T.  DE  M. 

121 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

siasm   than   by  the   hoary   everlasting.     When  we 
came  down  from  the  cold  mountain-top,  my  mind 
was  made  up:  mathematics  would  be  abandoned. 
On  the  day  before  his  departure,  he  said  to  me: 
'  You  interest  yourself  in  shells.     That  is  some- 
thing, but  it  is  not  enough.     You  must  look  into 
the    animal    itself.      I    will    show    you    how    it's 
done." 

And,  taking  a  sharp  pair  of  scissors  from  the 
family  workbasket,  and  a  couple  of  needles  stuck 
into  a  bit  of  vine-shoot,  which  served  as  a  make- 
shift handle,  he  showed  me  the  anatomy  of  a  Snail 
in  a  soup-plate  filled  with  water.  Gradually  he 
explained  and  sketched  the  organs  which  he  spread 
before  my  eyes.  This  was  the  only,  never-to-be- 
forgotten  lesson  in  natural  history  that  I  ever  re- 
ceived in  my  life.1 

Fabre  was  a  wonderful  and  indefatigable 
self-teacher;  a  truly  self-made  man.  The  im- 
pulse had  been  given,  but  he  had  everything, 
or  almost  everything,  to  learn  of  the  living 
world  of  Nature.  The  way  was  open,  but 
the  whole  length  of  it  had  to  be  travelled. 
He  trod  it  henceforth  with  a  high  courage, 
for  he  was  marching  beneath  the  star  that 
the  Master  of  minds  had  hung  in  the  dawn 
of  his  days  above  the  hills  of  Lavaysse;  the 


1  Souvenirs,  VI.,  pp.  63-66. 
vi.,  "My  Schooling." 


The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap. 
122 


The  Professor:    Ajaccio 

star  that  now,  in  the  noon-day  of  life,  shone 
through  the  passing  mists  of  morning  in  the 
flawless  Corsican  sky,  to  guide  his  steps  along 
the  humblest  tracks  of  the  world  of  animals 
to  the  highest  summits  of  human  knowledge ; 
ay,  more,  to  those  calm  regions  which  are 
the  dwelling  of  that  uncreated  Light  and 
Life  of  which  all  the  lights  and  all  the  lives 
of  earth  are  but  the  pale  reflections  and  fee- 
ble vestiges. 

Not  only  do  these  reflections,  which  spon- 
taneously pass  through  our  mind,  appear  to 
us  in  harmony  with  the  natural  signification 
of  the  facts  and  the  circumstances;  we  have 
the  pleasant  assurance  that  they  are  an  epit- 
ome of  the  intimate  feelings  of  our  famous 
compatriot,  as  they  are  expressed  in  plain 
words  in  a  thousand  passages  of  his  writing 
and  as  they  were  openly  revealed  in  his  con- 
versation. We  know,  in  short,  that  God  and 
the  activities  of  God  in  the  world  were  ques- 
tions which  he  was  fond  of  considering,  with- 
out regarding  the  world's  opinion.  His  es- 
says are  full  of  the  subject.  But  we  will 
quote  only  one  passage,  which  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  bringing  us  an  echo  of  the  jubi- 
lee celebrations  which  were  celebrated  at 
Serignan  while  this  volume  was  being  writ- 
ten:  When  the  venerable  nonogenarian  was 
123 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

being  feted,  one  of  his  visitors  asked  him  the 
question : 

"  Do  you  believe  in  God?  " 
To  which  he  replied  emphatically: 
"  I  can't  say  I  believe  in  God;  I  see  Him. 
Without  Him  I  understand  nothing;  without 
Him  all  is  darkness.  Not  only  have  I  re- 
tained this  conviction;  I  have  .  .  .  aggra- 
vated or  ameliorated  it,  whichever  you 
please.  Every  period  has  its  manias.  /  re- 
gard Atheism  as  a  mania.  It  is  the  malady 
of  the  age.  You  could  take  my  skin  from  me 
more  easily  than  my  faith  in  God." 

We  may  add,  in  order  to  throw  some  light 
upon  the  religion  of  the  Aliborons  of  our 
villages,  that  the  eminent  biologist  shares  this 
belief  with  almost  all  our  great  scientists. 

Corsica,  which  vouchsafed  Fabre  the  rev- 
elation of  his  vocation  as  naturalist,  inspired 
him  also  with  such  love  and  enthusiasm  as 
he  had  never  hitherto  known. 

There  the  intense  impressionability  which 
the  little  peasant  of  Aveyron  received  at  birth 
could  only  be  confirmed  and  increased.  He 
felt  that  this  superb  and  luxuriant  nature  was 
made  for  him,  and  that  he  was  born  for  it; 
to  understand  and  interpret  it.  He  would 
lose  himself  in  a  delicious  intoxication,  amid 
the  deep  woodlands,  the  mountains  rich  with 
124 


The  Professor:    Ajaccio 

scented  flowers,  wandering  through  the 
maquis,  the  myrtle  scrub,  through  jungles  of 
lentisk  and  arbutus;  barely  containing  his 
emotion  when  he  passed  beneath  the  great 
secular  chestnut-trees  of  Bastelica,  with  their 
enormous  trunks  and  leafy  boughs,  whose 
sombre  majesty  inspired  in  him  a  sort  of 
melancholy  at  once  poetic  and  religious.  Be- 
fore the  sea,  with  its  infinite  distances,  he 
lingered  in  ecstasy,  listening  to  the  song  of 
the  waves,  and  gathering  the  marvellous 
shells  which  the  snow-white  breakers  left 
upon  the  beach,  and  whose  unfamiliar  forms 
filled  him  with  delight. 

Not  that  he  had  time  to  make  a  very  rich 
harvest  of  facts  and  observations  in  this  won- 
derful country.  The  most  visible  result  of 
his  sojourn  in  the  "  isle  of  beauty,"  and  the 
greatest  benefit  which  he  derived  from  it, 
seems  to  have  been  the  fact  that  it  brought 
his  heart  and  mind — if  I  may  be  permitted 
the  expression — into  a  state  of  entomological 
grace;  I  mean  into  a  state  of  living  and  act- 
ing truly  and  beautifully  in  accordance  with 
his  vocation  as  a  naturalist. 

So  it  is  that  the  name  of  this  radiant 
daughter  of  the  Mediterranean,  which  is  so 
often  written  by  his  pen,  seems  to  find  its  way 
thither  in  order  to  evoke  one  of  the  bright- 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

est  and  most  joyful  periods  of  his  life,  rather 
than  to  localise  observations  or  circumstantial 
experiences. 

There  is,  however,  one  of  these  reminis- 
cences which,  despite  the  extreme  sobriety  of 
the  characteristics  recorded,  denotes,  in  the 
youthful  entomologist,  a  mind  peculiarly  at- 
tentive to  the  slightest  indications  and  the 
least  movements  of  his  future  clients  of  the 
animal  world.  It  deals  with  the  Spider,1 
that  ill-famed  creature  whom  all  hasten  to 
crush  underfoot  as  an  odious  and  maleficent 
insect,  but  which  the  entomologist  holds  in 
high  esteem  for  its  talents  as  a  spinner,  its 
hunting  expedients,  and  other  highly  interest- 
ing characteristics.  The  author  has  just  ex- 
plained, on  behalf  of  the  poor,  supposedly 
poisonous  insect,  that  for  us  its  bite  has  no 
serious  results,  producing  less  effect  than  the 
bite  of  a  gnat:  "  Nevertheless,  a  few  are  to 
be  feared;  and  foremost  among  these  is  the 
Malmignatte,  the  terror  of  the  Corsican 
peasantry." 

By  good  fortune  the  only  Tarantula  that 
bit  him  in  Corsica  was  the  Tarantula  of  nat- 
ural history. 

But  while  he  was  not  injured  by  the  spiders, 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.   178-180.     The  Life  of  the  Spider, 
chap,  ii.,  "The  Black-bellied  Tarantula." 
126 


The  Professor:    Ajaccio 

he  was  less  fortunate  in  defending  himself 
against  the  mosquitoes,  from  whose  bites  he 
contracted  an  attack  of  malaria,  in  the  myrtle 
maquis  which  he  doubtless  haunted  more  per- 
sistently than  was  wise. 

This  unfortunate  incident  persuaded  him 
to  apply  for  an  appointment  in  France. 


127 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PROFESSOR:  AVIGNON   (1852-1870) 

TN  1852  the  Professor  of  Physics  and 
•*-  Chemistry  in  the  lycee  of  Ajaccio  was 
transferred  to  the  lycee  of  Avignon. 

Fabre  was  not  yet  twenty-seven.  His 
youth,  his  enthusiasm,  his  good  humour,  the 
simplicity  of  his  manners,  and  the  vivacity  of 
his  mind  naturally  endeared  him  to  young 
people  eager  for  knowledge  and  the  ideal. 
A  few  lines  from  the  Souvenirs  give  us  some 
idea  of  the  relations  between  master  and  pu- 
pils: "There  were  five  or  six  of  us:  I  was 
the  oldest,  their  master,  but  still  more  their 
companion  and  their  friend;  they  were  young 
fellows  with  warm  hearts  and  cheerful  imagi- 
nations, overflowing  with  that  springtide  sap 
of  life  which  makes  us  so  expansive,  so  de- 
sirous of  knowledge." 

One  guesses  that  he  is  speaking  of  one  of 
those  country  walks  on  which,  with  a  guide 
such  as  Fabre,  everything  became  a  source 
of  instruction  and  an  object  of  wonder  and 
admiration. 

128 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

These  excursions  into  the  world  of  the 
fields,  the  delight  of  his  youth  and  his  earliest 
childhood,  were  henceforth  to  form  the  first 
item  on  his  programme  of  studies.  Mathe- 
matics were  dropped,  as  Moquin-Tandon  had 
advised.  Physics  and  chemistry  were  put  in 
their  proper  place,  in  the  teaching  of  the 
lycee,  and  the  whole  of  the  young  professor's 
free  energies  were  expended  upon  the  re- 
search work  of  the  naturalist. 

Necessarily  limited  by  his  occupation  as  a 
teacher,  his  investigations  could  not  at  ordi- 
nary times  extend  beyond  the  neighbourhood 
of  Avignon.  One  of  his  favourite  localities 
for  observation,  by  reason  of  its  nearness  and 
its  entomological  wealth,  was  the  table-land 
of  Les  Angles,  opposite  the  town  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Rhone.  Morning  or  evening,  he 
made  quick  work  of  crossing  the  river  and 
climbing  the  cliff  which  divides  it  from  the 
barren  table-land  which  he  calls  his  "  little 
Arabia  Petrasa." 

Presently  his  Thursdays  and  holidays  were 
devoted  to  more  distant  and  more  prolonged 
observations.  His  steps  took  him,  by  pref- 
erence, down-stream  from  Avignon,  along  the 
right  bank  of  the  Rhone,  opposite  the  em- 
bouchure of  the  Durance,  to  a  spot  known 
as  the  Bois  des  Issarts.  Not  that  he  was 
129 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

drawn  thither  by  the  mossy  carpets  or  the 
twilight  of  lofty  forest  trees  which  form  the 
charm  of  our  woodlands.  The  burning  plains 
where  the  Cicada  shrilled  and  the  olive  flour- 
ished know  nothing  of  these  delightful  re- 
treats, so  full  of  shadow  and  coolness.  Here 
is  Fabre's  own  description: 

The  Bois  des  Issarts  is  a  coppice  of  holm-oaks  no 
higher  than  one's  head  and  sparingly  distributed  in 
scanty  clumps  which,  even  at  their  feet,  hardly 
temper  the  force  of  the  sun's  rays.  When  I  used 
to  settle  myself  in  some  part  of  the  coppice  suit- 
able for  my  observations,  on  certain  afternoons  in 
the  dog-days  of  July  and  August,  I  had  the  shelter 
of  a  large  umbrella.  If  I  neglected  to  furnish 
myself  with  this  embarrassing  adjunct  to  a  long 
walk,  my  only  resource  against  sunstroke  was  to 
lie  down  at  full  length  behind  some  sandy  knoll ; 
and,  when  the  veins  in  my  temples  were  throbbing 
to  bursting  point,  my  last  hope  lay  in  putting  my 
head  down  a  rabbit-burrow.  Such  are  one's  means 
of  keeping  cool  in  the  Bois  des  Issarts. 

What  was  there  to  draw  him  and  retain 
him  in  such  places,  so  unpropitious  for  the 
holiday  of  a  professor  on  vacation?  Ah! 
they  are  the  favourite  resort  of  the  Bem- 
bex,  one  of  his  favourite  insects.  "  A  blaz- 
ing sun,  a  sky  magnificently  blue,  sandy  slopes 
130 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

to  dig  in,  game  in  abundance  to  feed  the 
larvae,  a  peaceful  spot  hardly  ever  disturbed 
by  a  passing  step  " :  all  things  combined  to 
attract  the  digger-wasp  to  such  localities. 

I  was,  however,  not  the  only  one  to  profit  by 
the  shade  of  my  umbrella;  I  was  generally  sur- 
rounded by  numerous  companions.  Gad-flies  of 
various  species  would  take  refuge  under  the  silken 
dome,  and  sit  peacefully  on  every  part  of  the  tightly- 
stretched  cover.  I  was  rarely  without  their  society 
when  the  heat  became  overpowering.  To  while 
away  the  hours  when  I  had  nothing  to  do,  it 
amused  me  to  watch  their  great  gold  eyes,  which 
shone  like  carbuncles  under  my  canopy;  I  loved 
to  follow  their  solemn  progress  when  some  part 
of  the  ceiling  became  too  hot  and  obliged  them  to 
move  a  little  way  on. 

One  day,  bang!  The  tight  cover  resounded 
like  the  skin  of  a  drum.  Perhaps  an  oak  had 
dropped  an  acorn  on  the  umbrella.  Presently,  one 
after  the  other,  bang,  bang,  bang!  Can  some  prac- 
tical joker  have  come  to  disturb  my  solitude  and 
fling  acorns  or  little  pebbles  at  my  umbrella?  I 
leave  my  tent  and  inspect  the  neighbourhood :  noth- 
ing! The  same  sharp  sound  is  repeated.  I  look 
up  at  the  ceiling,  and  the  mystery  is  explained. 
The  Bembex  of  the  vicinity,  who  all  consume  Gad- 
flies, had  discovered  the  rich  provender  that  was 
keeping  me  company,  and  were  impudently  pene- 
trating my  shelter  to  seize  the  flies  on  the  ceiling. 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

Things  were  going  to  perfection;  I  had  only  to 
sit  still  and  look. 

Every  moment  a  Bembex  would  enter,  swift  as 
lightning,  and  dart  up  to  the  silken  ceiling,  which 
resounded  with  a  sharp  thud.  Some  rumpus  was 
going  on  aloft,  where  the  eye  could  no  longer  dis- 
tinguish between  attacker  and  attacked,  so  lively 
was  the  fray.  The  struggle  did  not  last  for  an 
appreciable  time:  the  Wasp  would  retire  forthwith 
with  a  victim  between  her  legs. 

Obviously  this  suddenness  of  attack,  followed 
by  the  swift  removal  of  the  prey,  does  not  allow 
the  Bembex  to  regulate  her  dagger-play.1 

With  ever-increasing  accuracy,  by  the  com- 
bined efforts  of  observation  and  experiment, 
that  rich  entomological  material  was  amassed 
which  was  one  day  to  serve  for  the  erection 
of  one  of  the  finest  and  most  enduring  monu- 
ments of  contemporary  science. 

We  should  form  but  a  very  incomplete  idea 
of  the  sort  of  work  to  which  the  future  au- 
thor of  the  Souvenirs  began  to  devote  himself 
at  this  early  stage  of  his  professorship  were 
we  merely  to  note  his  frequent  visits  to  Les 
Angles  and  his  long  sessions  beneath  his  um- 
brella in  trie  Bois  des  Issarts. 

Apart  from  this  favourite  field  of  observa- 

1  Souvenirs,  i.,  pp.  221,  240-241.  The  Hunting  Wasps, 
chap,  xiv.,  "  The  Bembex." 

132 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

tion,  the  enthusiastic  curiosity  of  the  natural- 
ist found  scope  for  its  exercise  on  every 
hand. 

Whether  at  home  or  abroad,  whether  pass- 
ing along  the  public  highway  or  visiting  a 
friend,  it  was  enough  for  an  insect  to  appear 
to  capture  and  retain  his  attention  without 
regard  for  the  circumstances  and  without  a 
thought  as  to  what  might  be  said  of  him. 
On  one  occasion  a  Pelopaeus,  that  is,  a  Pot- 
ter-wasp (TTT/AOTTOZ'OS'),  holding  her  pellet  of 
mud  in  her  jaws,  came  to  his  fireside  one 
washing-day,  seeking  access  to  the  nest  which 
she  was  building  behind  the  breast  of  the 
fireplace.  More  anxious  about  the  Wasp 
than  about  the  washing,  he  controlled  the  fire 
so  that  it  should  not  too  greatly  incommode 
the  little  mason  by  eddies  of  smoke  or  flame, 
and  for  two  good  hours  he  followed  the  com- 
ing and  going  of  the  Pelopaeus,  and  the  prog- 
ress of  her  nest-building.  This  was  in  the 
early  days  of  his  Avignon  professorship.1 

Another  day  it  was  once  again  the  strange 
mud-worker  which  attracted  his  attention,  not 
in  his  own  house  this  time  but  in  the  kitchen 
of  Roberty,  one  of  the  chief  farmhouses  on 
the  outskirts  of  Avignon.  Returning  to  din- 
ner from  their  work  in  the  fields,  the  farm 

1  Souvenirs,  iv.,  3-5. 

133 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

hands  had  hung,  on  pegs  driven  into  the  wall, 
one  his  blouse  and  another  his  hat.  While 
they  were  devoting  their  attention  to  the 
soup,  the  guest  had  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
Pelopaei  which  came  prowling  about  the  men's 
clothes  and  found  them  so  well  adapted  to 
their  needs  that  they  began  to  build  their 
nests  upon  them.  Unfortunately  for  the 
builders  and  the  spectator,  the  men  soon  rose 
from  the  table  and  shook  their  belongings, 
dislodging  masses  of  mud  already  as  large 
as  an  acorn.  Ah !  If  he  had  been  the  owner 
of  those  garments,  how  gladly  he  would  have 
allowed  the  Pelopaei  to  work  their  will,  in 
order  to  learn  the  fate  of  a  nest  built  upon 
the  shifting  surface  of  a  smock-frock.1 

The  unavoidable  limitations  imposed  by  ob- 
servations undertaken  at  home  are  not  more 
disappointing  to  the  investigator  than  the 
possible  disturbance  caused  by  passers-by 
should  he  attempt  to  watch  the  insect  on  the 
public  highways.  Here  is  an  example.  The 
professor,  on  one  of  his  "  days  off,"  is  qui- 

1  However;  the  audacious  insect  had  other  surprises  in 
store  for  him:  his  notes  speak  of  nests  found  more  or  less 
by  chance  near  the  still  of  a  distillery,  on  the  top  of  a 
steam-engine  in  a  silk  mill,  on  the  walls  and  furniture  of 
a  farmhouse  kitchen,  and  even  in  the  interior  of  a  gourd 
in  which  the  farmer  kept  his  shot  on  the  chimney-piece; 
in  a  word,  wherever  there  was  warmth  and  not  too 
much  light.  Souvenirs,  iv.,  p.  8-12. 

134 


The  Professor :    Avignon 

etly  strollin'g  along  a  narrow  footpath  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rhone: 

A  Yellow-winged  Sphex  appears,  hopping  along, 
dragging  her  prey.  What  do  I  see?  The  prey 
is  not  a  Cricket,  but  a  common  Acridian,  a  Lo- 
cust! And  yet  the  Wasp  is  really  the  Sphex  with 
whom  I  am  so  familiar,  the  Yellow-winged  Sphex, 
the  keen  Cricket-huntress.  I  can  hardly  believe 
the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes. 

The  burrow  is  not  far  off:  the  insect  enters  it 
and  stores  away  the  booty.  I  sit  down,  determined 
to  wait  for  a  new  expedition,  to  wait  hours  if 
necessary,  so  that  I  may  see  if  the  extraordinary 
capture  is  repeated.  My  sitting  attitude  makes 
me  take  up  the  whole  width  of  the  path.  Two 
raw  conscripts  heave  in  sight,  their  hair  newly 
cut,  wearing  that  inimitable  automaton  look  which 
the  first  days  of  barrack-life  bestow.  They  are 
chatting  together,  talking  no  doubt  of  home  and 
the  girl  they  left  behind  them;  and  each  is  inno- 
cently whittling  a  willow-switch  with  his  knife.  I 
am  seized  with  a  sudden  apprehension.  I  there- 
fore got  up  without  speaking  and  trusted  to  my 
lucky  star.  Alas  and  alack,  my  star  betrayed  me: 
the  heavy  regulation  boot  came  straight  down 
upon  the  ceiling  of  the  Sphex!  A  shudder  ran 
through  me  as  though  I  myself  had  received  the  im- 
press of  the  hobnailed  sole.1 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  122.  The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  vii., 
"  Advanced  Theories." 

135 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

And  the  unfortunate  observer  "cries,  with 
an  emotion  which  he  does  not  attempt  to 
conceal : 

Alas!  It  is  no  easy  matter  to  experiment  on  the 
public  road,  where,  when  the  long-waited  event 
occurs  at  last,  the  arrival  of  a  wayfarer  is  likely 
to  disturb  or  ruin  opportunities  that  may  never 
return ! 

But  the  entomological  hero  does  not  allow 
himself  to  be  discouraged  by  those  unfortu- 
nate encounters  with  the  profane,  nor  does 
he  shrink  from  the  humiliation  which  they 
sometimes  inflict  upon  him.  The  following 
is  a  characteristic  example : 

Ever  since  daybreak  I  have  been  ambushed,  sit- 
ting on  a  stone,  at  the  bottom  of  a  ravine.  The 
subject  of  my  matutinal  visit  is  the  Languedocian 
Sphex.  Three  women,  vine-pickers,  pass  in  a  group, 
on  the  way  to  their  work.  They  give  a  glance  at 
the  man  seated,  apparently  absorbed  in  reflection. 
At  sunset  the  same  pickers  pass  again,  carrying 
their  full  baskets  on  their  heads.  The  man  is  still 
there,  sitting  on  the  same  stone,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  same  place.  My  motionless  attitude,  my 
long  persistency  in  remaining  at  that  deserted  spot, 
must  have  impressed  them  deeply.  As  they  passed 
by  me,  I  saw  one  of  them  tap  her  forehead  and 
heard  her  whisper  to  the  others: 
136 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

"Un  paoure  inoucent,  pecdire!" 

And  all  three  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross.1 

This  last  scene  was  enacted  on  one  of  the 
deeply-sunken  roads  on  the  outskirts  of  Car- 
pentras,  whither  Fabre  was  fond  of  repair- 
ing for  his  researches.  From  an  early  period, 
indeed,  his  craze  for  exploration  had  led  him 
far  beyond  the  Avignon  district.  On  this 
third  stage  of  his  excursions,  he  struck  out  to 
some  extent  in  all  directions,  but  the  locality 
which  he  preferred  for  his  insect-hunting  was 
undoubtedly  the  "  Sunken  Road,"  as  it  was 
called,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Carpentras. 
A  lonely  valley  with  a  sandy  soil,  with  high, 
steep  slopes  on  either  hand,  its  flanks  deeply 
scored  into  ravines  and  burned  by  the  sun, 
the  "  Sunken  Road  "  was  an  ideal  home  for 
the  Hymenoptera,  those  lovers  of  sunny 
slopes  and  soils  that  are  easily  worked;  and 
this  was  enough  to  make  it  the  favourite 
haunt  of  the  intrepid  biologist.2 

Among  the  Hymenoptera  that  frequent  the 
slopes  and  embankments  of  the  "  Sunken 
Road,"  in  addition  to  the  Hunting-wasps, 
which  feed  their  larvae  on  living  flesh,  there 
are  other  species  which  provide  them  with 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  136.     The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  viii., 
"  The  Languedocian  Sphex." 

2  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  50,  52 ;  n.,  p.  262  et  seq. 

137 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

honey.  These  also  attracted  the  naturalist's 
attention;  these  also  provided  a  protracted 
test  for  his  ingenuity  and  patience,  and  finally 
rewarded  his  pains  beyond  all  hopes. 

The  following  is  an  interesting  description 
of  the  naturalist's  encounter  with  a  swarm  of 
Bees  in  the  "  Sunken  Road  "  while  endeav- 
ouring to  observe  the  installation  of  the 
Sitares  in  the  cell  of  the  Anthophora: 

In  front  of  a  high  expanse  of  earth  a  swarm 
stimulated  by  the  sun,  which  floods  it  with  light 
and  heat,  is  dancing  a  crazy  ballet.  It  is  a  hover 
of  Anthophorae,  a  few  feet  thick  and  covering  an 
area  which  matches  the  sort  of  house-front  formed 
by  the  perpendicular  soil.  From  the  tumultuous 
heart  of  the  cloud  rises  a  monotonous,  threatening 
murmur,  while  the  bewildered  eye  strays  through 
the  inextricable  evolutions  of  the  eager  throng. 
With  the  rapidity  of  a  lightning-flash,  thousands 
of  Anthophorae  are  incessantly  flying  off  and  scat- 
tering over  the  country-side  in  search  of  booty; 
thousands  of  others  also  are  incessantly  arriving, 
laden  with  honey  or  mortar,  and  keeping  up  the 
formidable  proportions  of  the  swarm. 

I  was  at  that  time  something  of  a  novice  as  re- 
gards the  nature  of  these  insects. 

"Woe,"  said  I  to  myself,  "woe  to  the  reckless 
wight  bold  enough  to  enter  the  heart  of  this  swarm 
and,  above  all,  to  lay  a  rash  hand  upon  the  dwell- 
ings under  construction!  Forthwith  surrounded 
138 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

by  the  furious  host,  he  would  expiate  his  rash  at- 
tempt, stabbed  by  a  thousand  stings!" 

At  this  thought,  rendered  still  more  alarming 
by  the  recollection  of  certain  misadventures  of 
which  I  had  been  the  victim  when  seeking  to  ob- 
serve too  closely  the  combs  of  the  Hornet  (Vespa 
crabro) ,  I  felt  a  shiver  of  apprehension  pass  through 
my  body. 

Yet,  to  obtain  light  upon  the  question  which 
brings  me  hither,  I  must  needs  penetrate  the  fear- 
some swarm ;  I  must  stand  for  whole  hours,  per- 
haps all  day,  watching  the  works  which  I  intend 
to  upset ;  lens  in  hand,  I  must  scrutinise,  unmoved 
amid  the  whirl,  the  things  that  are  happening  in 
the  cells.  The  use  moreover  of  a  mask,  of  gloves, 
of  a  covering  of  any  kind,  is  impracticable,  for  ex- 
treme dexterity  of  the  ringers  and  complete  liberty 
of  sight  are  essential  to  the  investigations  which 
I  have  to  make.  No  matter:  even  though  I  leave 
this  wasps'-nest  with  a  face  swollen  beyond  recog- 
nition, I  must  to-day  obtain  a  decisive  solution  of 
the  problem  which  has  preoccupied  me  too  long. 

My  preparations  are  made  at  once :  I  button  my 
clothes  tightly,  so  as  to  afford  the  Bees  the  least 
possible  opportunity,  and  I  enter  the  heart  of  the 
swarm.  A  few  blows  of  the  mattock,  which  arouse 
a  far  from  reassuring  crescendo  in  the  humming 
of  the  Anthophorae,  soon  place  me  in  possession  of 
a  lump  of  earth ;  and  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  greatly 
astonished  to  find  myself  still  safe  and  sound  and 
unpursued.  But  the  lump  of  earth  which  I  have 
removed  is  from  a  part  too  near  the  surface;  it 
139 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

contains  nothing  but  Osmia-cells,  which  do  not 
interest  me  for  the  moment.  A  second  expedition 
is  made,  lasting  longer  than  the  first;  and,  though 
my  retreat  is  effected  without  great  precipitation, 
not  an  Anthophora  has  touched  me  with  her  sting, 
nor  even  shown  herself  disposed  to  fall  upon  the 
aggressor. 

This  success  emboldens  me.  I  remain  perma- 
nently in  front  of  the  work  in  progress,  continu- 
ally removing  lumps  of  earth  filled  with  cells, 
spilling  the  liquid  honey  on  the  ground,  eviscerat- 
ing larvae  and  crushing  the  Bees  busily  occupied 
in  their  nests.  All  this  devastation  results  merely 
in  arousing  a  louder  hum  in  the  swarm  and  is  not 
followed  by  any  hostile  demonstration. 

Thanks  to  this  unexpected  lack  of  spirit  in  the 
Mason-bee,  I  was  able  for  hours  to  pursue  my  in- 
vestigations at  my  leisure,  seated  on  a  stone  in  the 
midst  of  the  murmuring  and  distracted  swarm, 
without  receiving  a  single  sting,  although  I  took 
no  precautions  whatever.  Country-folk,  happen- 
ing to  pass  and  beholding  me  seated,  unperturbed 
in  the  midst  of  the  whirl  of  Bees,  stopped  aghast 
to  ask  me  whether  I  had  bewitched  them,  whether  I 
charmed  them,  since  I  appeared  to  have  nothing 
to  fear  from  them: 

"Me,  moun  bel  ami,  li-z-ave  doun  escounjurado 
que  vous  pougnioun  pas,  caneu  de  sort!" 

My  miscellaneous  impediments  spread  over  the 
ground,  boxes,  glass  jars  and  tubes,  tweezers  and 
magnifying-glasses,  were  certainly  regarded  by  these 
good  people  as  the  implements  of  my  wizardry. 
140 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

I  can  assert  to-day,  after  a  long  experience,  that 
only  the  Social  Hymenoptera,  the  Hive-bees,  the 
Common  Wasps,  and  the  Bumble-bees  know  how 
to  devise  a  common  defence ;  and  only  they  dare 
fall  singly  upon  the  aggressor,  to  wreak  an  in- 
dividual vengeance. 

But  we  would  not  leave  the  banks  of  the 
"  Sunken  Road,"  which  have  been  made  clas- 
sic by  Fabre's  observations  on  the  Cerceris, 
the  Sitaris  and  tutti  quanti,  without  letting  the 
reader  hear  an  echo  of  the  heartfelt  accents 
in  which  the  now  ageing  scientist  speaks  of 
these  spots  which  witnessed  his  first  endeav- 
ours and  his  first  achievements  as  an  ento- 
mologist, when  he  returns  to  them  thirty 
years  later  to  complete  his  data  respecting  the 
Anthophora's  parasites: 

Illustrious  ravines  whose  banks  are  calcined  by 
the  sun,  if  I  have  in  some  small  degree  contributed 
to  your  fame,  you,  in  your  turn,  have  afforded  me 
some  happy  hours  of  oblivion  spent  in  the  joy  of 
learning.  You,  at  least,  have  never  lured  me  with 
vain  hopes;  all  that  you  have  promised  me  you 
have  given  me,  often  a  hundredfold.  You  are  my 
promised  land,  in  which  I  fain  would  finally  have 
pitched  my  observer's  tent.  It  has  not  been  pos- 
sible to  realise  my  desire.  Let  me  at  least  salute 
in  passing  my  beloved  insects  of  other  days. 

A  wave  of  the  hat  to  the  Tuberculated  Cerceris, 
141 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

which  I  see  on  yonder  bank  busied  with  warehous- 
ing her  Cleonus.  As  I  saw  her  long  ago,  so  I  see 
her  to-day  .  .  .  Watching  her  at  work,  a  younger 
blood  flows  in  my  veins;  I  scent,  as  it  were,  the 
fragrance  of  some  renewal  of  life.  But  time  passes ; 
let  us  pass  on. 

Yet  another  greeting  here.  I  hear  rustling  over- 
head, above  that  ledge,  a  community  of  Sphex- 
wasps,  stabbing  their  Crickets!  Let  us  give  them 
a  friendly  glance,  but  no  more.  My  acquaintances 
here  are  too  numerous:  I  have  not  time  to  resume 
all  my  old  relations. 

Without  stopping,  a  wave  of  the  hat  to  the  Eu- 
menes  .  .  .  the  Philanthus  .  .  .  the  Tachytes  .  .  . 

At  last  we  are  there !  x 

This  last  exclamation,  a  cry  from  the  heart, 
which  reveals  the  object  of  this  latest  visit, 
is  addressed  to  the  murmuring  city  of  the 
Anthophorae,  in  which  he  had  formerly  made 
such  valuable  discoveries,  and  in  which  there 
was  still  something  left  to  discover:  so  true 
is  it  that  even  in  those  regions  which  have 
been  most  fully  explored  the  scientist  worthy 
of  the  name  never  flatters  himself  that  he  has 
reached  the  final  limits  of  knowledge. 

1  Souvenirs,  11.,  pp.  262-303,  in.,  194-195.  The  Gloiv- 
Worm,  chap,  ii.,  "The  Sitaris;  "  The  Lije  of  the  Fly, 
chap,  iv.,  "  Larval  Dimorphism." 


142 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  PROFESSOR:  AVIGNON    (CONTINUED) 

TN  sketching  for  the  reader's  benefit,  the 
-•-  characteristic  features  of  the  Avignon  nat- 
uralist, always  busy  with  his  researches,  and 
always  on  the  alert  for  fresh  discoveries,  we 
venture  to  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have 
placed  before  him  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished and  attractive  types  of  that  harmoni- 
ous synthesis  of  industry  and  genius,  which 
alone  is  capable  of  engendering  great  achieve- 
ments, and  which  was  so  ably  defined  by  the 
Latin  poet  in  the  words : 

"...  Ego  nee  studium  sine  divite  vena, 
Nee  rude  quid  possit  video  ingenium.     Alterius  sic 
Altera  poscit  opera  res  et  conjurat  amice."  1 

It  will  be  no  less  interesting  to  see  by  what 
varied  and  concurrent  circumstances,  by  what 
personal  interventions,  a  virtuosity  and  an  ac- 
tivity so  well  co-ordinated  were  stimulated, 
directed  and  controlled,  sustained  and  pro- 

1  HORACE,  Ars  Poetica,  409  et  seg. 
H3 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

tected  against  all  causes  of  deviation  or  dis- 
couragement. 

Not  in  vain  does  a  man  breathe  at  birth 
the  air  of  the  mountain-tops;  not  in  vain 
does  he  live  his  earliest  summers  with  the 
vision  of  the  heights  before  him.  He  retains 
as  it  were  a  nostalgia  for  the  heights,  and 
a  wild  longing  to  climb  them.  It  will  not 
surprise  us  to  learn  that  the  child  of  the  Haut- 
Rouergue,  transplanted,  by  the  vicissitudes  of 
life,  from  the  Levezou  mountains  to  the 
Provencal  plains,  should  calm  his  brain,  burn- 
ing with  the  stress  of  study,  by  gazing  at 
Mont  Ventoux,  and  anticipating  his  approach- 
ing expedition  to  the  mountain  of  his  dreams.1 
We  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  he 
never  allowed  himself  to  be  repulsed  by  the 
difficulties  of  the  enterprise,  and  that  more 
than  a  score  of  ascents  failed  to  produce  sa- 
tiety, whereas  many  another  found  his  cour- 
age and  his  interest  evaporate  almost  at  the 
outset.2  For  the  ascent  of  Mont  Ventoux 
is  a  difficult  task,  more  difficult  than  that  of 
the  majority  of  our  mountains: 

One  might  best  compare  the  Ventoux  with  a 
heap  of  stones  broken  up  for  road-mending  pur- 

1  Souvenirs,  III.,  p.   193. 

2  Ibid.,  I.,  p.  182.      The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  xi.,  "An 
Ascent  of  Mont  Ventoux." 

144 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

poses.  Raise  this  heap  suddenly  to  a  height  of  a 
mile  and  a  quarter,  increase  its  base  in  proportion, 
cover  the  white  of  the  limestone  with  the  black  stain 
of  the  forests,  and  you  have  a  clear  idea  of  the 
general  aspect  of  the  mountain.  This  accumula- 
tion of  rubbish — sometimes  small  chips,  sometimes 
huge  blocks — rises  from  the  plain  without  prelim- 
inary slopes  or  successive  terraces  that  would  ren- 
der the  ascent  less  arduous  by  dividing  it  into  stages. 
The  climb  begins  at  once  by  rocky  paths,  the  best 
of  which  is  worse  than  the  surface  of  a  road  newly 
strewn  with  stones,  and  continues,  becoming  ever 
rougher  and  rougher,  right  to  the  summit,  the 
height  of  which  is  6270  feet.  Green  swards,  bab- 
bling brooks,  the  spacious  shade  of  venerable  trees, 
all  the  things,  in  short,  that  lend  such  charm  to 
other  mountains,  are  here  unknown  and  are  re- 
placed by  an  interminable  bed  of  limestone  broken 
into  scales,  which  slip  under  our  feet  with  a  sharp, 
almost  metallic  "click."  By  way  of  cascades  the 
Ventoux  has  rills  of  stones;  the  rattle  of  falling 
rocks  takes  the  place  of  the  whispering  waters.1 

But  the  unsatisfied  eagerness  that  draws 
the  exile  from  our  cool  green  hills  to  repeat, 
again  and  again,  the  ascent  of  the  rocky  Pro- 
vengal  height,  is  based  on  something  more 
than  sensitiveness  to  impressions  and  a  pre- 
established  harmony;  he  is  also  strongly  at- 

1  Souvenirs,  i.,  pp.   182-3.     The  Hunting   Was$i,  chap. 
xi.,  "  An  Ascent  of  Mont  Ventoux." 

H5 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

tracted  by  the  peculiar  and  unique  variety  of 
the  flora  growing  upon  its  slopes : 

Thanks  to  its  isolated  position,  which  leaves  it 
freely  exposed  on  every  side  to  atmospheric  influ- 
ences; thanks  also  to  its  height,  which  makes  it  the 
topmost  point  of  France  within  the  frontiers  of 
either  the  Alps  or  the  Pyrenees,  our  bare  Provenqal 
mountain,  Mont  Ventoux,  lends  itself  remarkably 
well  to  the  study  of  the  climatic  distribution  of 
plants.  At  its  base  the  tender  olive  thrives,  with 
all  that  multitude  of  semi-ligneous  plants,  such  as 
the  thyme,  whose  aromatic  fragrance  calls  for  the 
sun  of  the  Mediterranean  regions;  on  the  summit, 
mantled  with  snow  for  at  least  half  the  year,  the 
ground  is  covered  with  a  northern  flora,  borrowed 
to  some  extent  from  Arctic  shores.  Half  a  day's 
journey  in  an  upward  direction  brings  before  our 
eyes  a  succession  of  the  chief  vegetable  types  which 
we  should  find  in  the  course  of  a  long  voyage  from 
south  to  north  along  the  same  meridian.1 

To  any  one  with  any  love  of  plants,  to  any 
one  with  blood  in  his  veins,  the  expedition  was 
a  tempting  one.  So  we  see  Him  set  out  for 
the  twenty-third  time  in  company  with  two 
colleagues  2  and  five  others.  Let  us  join  them 
if  we  wish  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  180. 

2  Th.   Delacour  and  Bernard  Valot  of  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes. 

I46 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

botanist  of  Mont  Ventoux  as  well  as  the  bot- 
any; for  Fabre  is  one  who  throws  himself 
wholly  into  all  that  he  does,  and  his  history 
can  no  more  be  divorced  from  that  of  his 
plants  than  from  that  of  his  beloved  insects. 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At  the  head 
of  the  caravan  walks  Triboulet,  with  his  Mule  and 
his  Ass:  Triboulet,  the  Nestor  of  the  Ventoux 
guides.  My  botanical  colleagues  inspect  the  vege- 
tation on  either  side  of  the  road  by  the  cold  light 
of  the  dawn ;  the  others  talk.  I  follow  the  party 
with  a  barometer  slung  from  my  shoulder  and  a 
note-book  and  pencil  in  my  hand. 

My  barometer,  intended  for  taking  the  altitude 
of  the  principal  botanical  halts,  soon  becomes  a 
pretext  for  attacks  on  the  gourd  with  the  rum.  No 
sooner  is  a  noteworthy  plant  observed  than  some- 
body cries: 

"Quick,  let's  look  at  the  barometer!" 

And  we  all  crowd  around  the  gourd,  the  scien- 
tific instrument  coming  later.  The  coolness  of 
the  morning  and  our  walk  make  us  appreciate  these 
references  to  the  barometer  so  thoroughly  that  the 
level  of  the  stimulant  falls  even  more  swiftly  than 
that  of  the  mercury.  In  the  interests  of  the  imme- 
diate future  I  must  consult  Torricelli's  tube  a  little 
less  often. 

As  the  temperature  grows  too  cold  for  them,  first 
the  oak  and  the  ilex  disappear  by  degrees;  then 
the  vine  and  the  almond-tree;  and  next  the  mul- 
147 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

berry,  the  walnut-tree,  and  the  white  oak.  Box 
becomes  plentiful.  We  enter  upon  a  monotonous 
region  extending  from  the  end  of  the  cultivated 
fields  to  the  lower  boundary  of  the  beech-woods, 
where  the  predominant  plant  is  Satureia  montana, 
the  winter  savory,  known  here  by  its  popular  name 
of  pebre  d'ase,  Ass's  pepper,  because  of  the  acrid 
flavour  of  its  tiny  leaves,  impregnated  with  essen- 
tial oil.  Certain  small  cheeses  forming  part  of  our 
stores  are  powdered  with  this  strong  spice.  Al- 
ready more  than  one  of  us  is  biting  into  them  in 
imagination  and  casting  hungry  glances  at  the  pro- 
vision bags  carried  by  the  Mule.  Our  hard  morn- 
ing exercise  has  brought  appetite,  and  more  than 
appetite,  a  devouring  hunger,  what  Horace  calls 
latrans  stomachus.  I  teach  my  colleagues  how  to 
stay  this  rumbling  stomach  until  they  reach  the 
next  halt;  I  show  them  a  little  sorrel-plant,  with 
arrow-head  leaves,  the  Rumex  scutatus,  or  French 
sorrel;  and,  practising  what  I  preach,  I  pick  a 
mouthful.  At  first  they  laugh  at  my  suggestion. 
I  let  them  laugh  and  soon  see  them  all  occupied, 
each  more  eagerly  than  his  fellow,  in  plucking  the 
precious  sorrel. 

While  chewing  the  acid  leaves  we  come  to  the 
beeches.  These  are  first  big,  solitary  bushes,  trail- 
ing on  the  ground;  soon  after,  dwarf  trees,  cluster- 
ing close  together ;  and,  finally,  mighty  trunks,  form- 
ing a  dense  and  gloomy  forest,  whose  soil  is  a  mass 
of  rough  limestone  blocks.  Bowed  down  in  win- 
ter by  the  weight  of  the  snow,  battered  all  the  year 
round  by  the  fierce  gusts  of  the  Mistral,  many  of 
I48 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

the  trees  have  lost  their  branches  and  are  twisted 
into  grotesque  postures,  or  even  lie  flat  on  the 
ground.  An  hour  or  more  is  spent  in  crossing  this 
wooded  zone,  which  from  a  distance  shows  against 
the  sides  of  the  Ventoux  like  a  black  belt.  Then 
once  more  the  beeches  become  bushy  and  scattered. 
We  have  reached  their  upper  boundary  and,  to  the 
great  relief  of  all  of  us,  despite  the  sorrel-leaves, 
we  have  also  reached  the  stopping-place  selected 
for  our  lunch. 

We  are  at  the  source  of  the  Grave,  a  slender 
stream  of  water  caught,  as  it  bubbles  from  the 
ground,  in  a  series  of  long  beech-trunk  troughs, 
where  the  mountain  shepherds  come  to  water  their 
flocks.  The  temperature  of  the  spring  is  45°  F. ; 
and  its  coolness  is  a  priceless  boon  for  us  who  have 
come  from  the  sultry  oven  of  the  plain.  The  cloth 
is  spread  on  a  charming  carpet  of  Alpine  plants, 
with  glittering  among  them  the  thyme-leaved  par- 
onychia,  whose  wide,  thin  bracts  look  like  silver 
scales.  The  food  is  taken  out  of  the  bags,  the  bot- 
tles extracted  from  their  bed  of  hay.  On  this  side 
are  the  joints,  the  legs  of  mutton  stuffed  with 
garlic,  the  stacks  of  loaves;  on  that,  the  tasteless 
chickens,  for  our  grinders  to  toy  with  presently, 
when  the  edge  has  been  taken  off  our  appetite.  At 
no  great  distance,  set  in  a  place  of  honour,  are  the 
Ventoux  cheeses  spiced  with  winter  savory,  the 
little  pebre  d'ase  cheeses,  flanked  by  Aries  sausages, 
whose  pink  flesh  is  mottled  with  cubes  of  bacon 
and  whole  peppercorns.  Over  here,  in  this  corner, 
are  green  olives  still  dripping  with  brine  and  black 
149 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

olives  soaking  in  oil ;  in  that  other,  Cavaillon  melons, 
some  white,  some  orange,  to  suit  every  taste;  and, 
down  there,  a  jar  of  anchovies  which  make  you 
drink  hard  and  so  keep  your  strength  up.  Lastly, 
the  bottles  are  cooling  in  the  ice-cold  water  of  the 
trough  over  there.  Have  we  forgotten  anything? 
Yes,  we  have  not  mentioned  the  crowning  side- 
dish,  the  onions,  to  be  eaten  raw  with  salt.  Our 
two  Parisians — for  we  have  two  among  us,  my 
fellow-botanists — are  at  first  a  little  startled  by 
this  very  invigorating  bill  of  fare ;  soon  they  will  be 
the  first  to  burst  into  praises.1 

But  we  will  pass  over  the  remarks  made 
at  breakfast  and  the  incidents  of  the  last 
stage  of  the  climb;  we  will  make  direct  for 
the  summit  of  Mont  Ventoux,  where  the 
leader  of  the  expedition  will  give  us  a  glimpse 
of  the  delights  that  await  the  naturalist  at 
the  end  of  his  climb  when  he  has  taken  the 
precaution  to  make  it  at  the  right  moment: 

Would  you  do  some  really  fruitful  botanising? 
Be  there  in  the  first  fortnight  of  July;  above  all, 
be  ahead  of  the  grazing  herds:  where  the  sheep 
has  browsed  you  will  gather  none  but  wretched 
leavings.  While  still  spared  by  the  hungry  flocks, 
the  top  of  the  Ventoux  in  July  is  a  literal  bed  of 
flowers;  its  loose  stony  surface  is  studded  with 

1  Souvenirs,    I.,    pp.    181-186.      The    Hunting    Wasps, 
chap,  xi.,  "An  Ascent  of  Mont  Ventoux." 
150 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

them.  My  memory  recalls,  all  streaming  with  the 
morning  dew,  those  elegant  tufts  of  Androsace  vil- 
losa,  with  its  pink-centred  white  blooms;  the  Mont- 
Cenis  violet,  spreading  its  great  blue  blossoms  over 
the  chips  of  limestone;  the  spikenard  valerian,  which 
blends  the  sweet  perfume  of  its  flowers  with  the 
offensive  odour  of  its  roots;  the  wedge-leaved  globu- 
laria,  forming  close  carpets  of  bright  green  dotted 
with  blue  capitula;  the  Alpine  forget-me-not,  whose 
blue  rivals  that  of  the  skies;  the  Candolla  candy- 
tuft, whose  tiny  stalk  bears  a  dense  head  of  little 
white  flowers  and  goes  winding  among  the  loose 
stones.1 

Our  naturalist  is  evidently  fascinated  by 
so  many  beauties,  of  such  delicate  quality. 
Will  he  not  be  tempted  to  forsake  his  in- 
sects for  the  flowers?  Will  not  the  botani- 
cal wealth  of  the  Ventoux  make  him  forget 
the  entomological  wonders  of  the  "  Sunken 
Road"?  No;  he  is  saved  from  such  an 
error  by  God  and  the  good  genius  that 
watches  over  the  destiny  of  him  who  is  to 
become  the  prince  of  entomologists.  Even 
in  his  lectures  on  botanical  subjects  the  in- 
sects are  given  their  due;  and  now  from  time 
to  time  they  claim  his  attention  and  seduce 
him  from  the  spectacle  of  the  vegetable  curi- 
osities which  form  the  principal  motive  of 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  192-193. 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  expedition;  it  is  now  the  Ammophila  and 
now  the  Decticus  *  that  crosses  the  path  of 
the  naturalist  in  search  of  plants  and  flow- 
ers, recalling,  by  some  of  the  most  curious 
problems  of  entomology,  the  first  beginnings 
of  his  vocation  and  the  great  task  of  his  life. 
But  the  silent  language  of  the  tiny  crea- 
tures destined  to  be  his  most  intimate  com- 
panions through  life  was  seconded,  at  an  op- 
portune moment,  by  the  more  expressive  lan- 
guage of  human  speech.  Here  we  have  one 
of  those  events  that  were  landmarks  in  Fa- 
bre's  life,  marking  the  starting-point  of  a 
fresh  phase  in  the  evolution  of  his  ideas  and 
his  labours.  He  alone  can  describe  for  us 
the  actual  nature  and  exact  significance  of  this 
incident: 

One  winter  evening,  when  the  rest  of  the  house- 
hold was  asleep,  as  I  sat  reading  beside  a  stove 
whose  ashes  were  still  warm,  my  book  made  me 
forget  for  a  while  the  cares  of  the  morrow:  these 
heavy  cares  of  a  poor  professor  of  physics  who,  after 
piling  up  diplomas  and  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
performing  services  of  uncontested  merit,  was  re- 
ceiving for  himself  and  his  family  a  stipend  of  six- 
teen hundred  francs,  or  less  than  the  wages  of  a 
groom  in  a  decent  establishment.  Such  was  the 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  p.  166;  i.,  p.  187. 
152 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

disgraceful  parsimony  of  the  day  where  education 
was  concerned;  such  was  the  edict  of  our  govern- 
ment red-tape :  I  was  an  irregular,  the  offspring  of 
my  solitary  studies.  And  so  I  was  forgetting  the 
poverty  and  anxieties  of  a  professor's  life  amid  my 
books,  when  I  chanced  to  turn  over  the  pages  of 
an  entomological  essay  that  had  fallen  into  my 
hands  I  forget  how. 

It  was  a  monograph  by  the  then  father  of  en- 
tomology, the  venerable  scientist  Leon  Dufour,  on 
the  habits  of  a  Wasp  that  hunted  Buprestis  beetles. 
Certainly,  I  had  not  waited  till  then  to  interest  my- 
self in  insects;  from  my  early  childhood  I  had  de- 
lighted in  Beetles,  Bees,  and  Butterflies;  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember,  I  see  myself  in  ecstasy  be- 
fore the  splendour  of  a  Ground-beetle's  wing-cases 
or  the  wings  of  Papilio  machaon,  the  Swallowtail. 
The  fire  was  laid ;  the  spark  to  kindle  it  was  ab- 
sent. Leon  Dufour's  essay  provided  that  spark.1 

New  lights  burst  forth :  I  received  a  sort  of 
mental  revelation.  So  there  was  more  in  science 
than  the  arranging  of  pretty  Beetles  in  a  cork  box 
and  giving  them  names  and  classifying  them;  there 
was  something  much  finer :  a  close  and  loving  study 
of  insect  life,  the  examination  of  the  structure  and 
especially  the  faculties  of  each  species.  I  read  of 
a  magnificent  instance  of  this,  glowing  with  ex- 
citement as  I  did  so.  Some  time  after,  aided  by 

iJLeon  Dufour  (1780-1865)  was  an  Army  surgeon 
who  in  1823  went  through  the  Spanish  campaign,  and 
on  returning  to  France  settled  in  his  native  town,  Saint- 
Sever,  where  he  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  entomology. 

153 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

those  lucky  circumstances  which  he  who  seeks  them 
eagerly  is  always  able  to  find,  I  myself  published 
an  entomological  article,  a  supplement  to  Leon 
Dufour's.  This  first  work  of  mine  won  honourable 
mention  from  the  Institute  of  France,  and  was 
awarded  a  prize  for  experimental  physiology.  But 
soon  I  received  a  far  more  welcome  recompense, 
in  the  shape  of  a  most  eulogistic  and  encouraging 
letter  from  the  very  man  who  had  inspired  me. 
From  his  home  in  the  Landes  the  revered  master 
sent  me  a  warm  expression  of  his  enthusiasm  and 
urged  me  to  go  on  with  my  studies.  Even  now, 
at  that  sacred  recollection,  my  old  eyes  fill  with 
happy  tears.  O  fair  days  of  illusion,  of  faith  in 
the  future,  where  are  you  now  ? 1 

Moquin-Tandon  converted  Fabre  to  the 
study  of  animals  and  plants.  Dufour  con- 
verted him  to  the  study  of  insects,  and  taught 
him  to  publish  the  results  of  his  entomological 
studies. 

Dufour's  little  work  was  a  revelation;  a 
flash  of  light  revealing  his  vocation.  It  was 
like  the  electric  impulse  that  bursts  the  seed 
about  to  open,  that  sends  the  genius  ready 
to  unfold  its  wings  soaring  into  the  heavens. 

It  was  to  the  chance  perusal  of  a  certain 
passage  that  another  prince  of  science  owed 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  39-41.     The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap, 
i.,  "  The  Buprestis-hunting  Cerceris." 

154 


The  Professor :    Avignon 

the  awakening  of  his  genius.  We  are  speak- 
ing of  Pasteur,  whom  we  shall  presently  see 
in  his  dealings  with  Fabre.  "  It  was  through 
reading  a  note  by  the  Russian  chemist, 
Mitscherlich,  on  the  comparison  of  the  spe- 
cific characters  of  certain  crystals  that  Pas- 
teur became  interested  in  those  investigations 
of  the  subject  of  molecular  dissymmetry 
which  were  the  starting-point  of  so  many  won- 
derful discoveries."  1 

Does  it  not  seem  that  there  must  be  a  spe- 
cial Providence  for  the  elect  of  science? 

In  Dufour's  memoir,  which  gave  Fabre  so 
decisive  an  impulsion  toward  entomology,  a 
singular  fact  is  mentioned:  the  naturalist  of 
the  Landes  found  in  the  nest  of  a  species  of 
Wasp  known  as  the  Cerceris  some  small  bee- 
tles of  the  Buprestis  family,  which,  although 
apparently  dead,  remained  as  fresh  as  though 
alive  during  the  period  occupied  by  the  rear- 
ing of  the  larvae  for  whose  nourishment  they 
are  destined  to  serve. 

Dufour  supposed  that  these  Buprestes 
were  simply  dead,  and,  "  in  order  to  explain 
this  marvellous  preservation  of  their  flesh, 
which  makes  an  insect  that  for  several  weeks 
has  been  motionless  as  a  corpse  a  kind  of 
game  that  does  not  become  high  but  remain 

1  Fabre,  Poet  of  Science,  p.  58. 
155 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

as  fresh  as  at  the  moment  of  capture  during 
the  greatest  heat  of  summer,  he  presumed 
the  use  of  a  liquid  antiseptic,  acting  in  the 
same  manner  as  the  preparations  used  to  pre- 
serve anatomical  specimens.  This  liquid 
could  only  be  the  venom  of  the  Hymenop- 
teron  inoculated  into  the  victim's  body.  The 
tiny  drop  of  poisonous  humour  that  accom- 
panies the  sting,  the  lancet  employed  in  the 
inoculation,  is  supposed  to  perform  the  office 
of  a  kind  of  pickle  or  preservative  liquid  for 
preserving  the  flesh  set  aside  for  the  nour- 
ishment of  the  larvae. 

But  Fabre  was  burning  with  curiosity  to 
observe  for  himself  a  phenomenon  which  an 
old  practitioner  like  Dufour  proclaims  the 
most  curious  and  extraordinary  known  to  the 
history  of  the  insect  kingdom.1  He  did  not 
hesitate  to  go  to  Carpentras,  to  search  for 
the  Buprestis-hunting  wasp,  which  does  not 
occur  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Avignon.  A 
minute  inspection  of  the  Cerceris'  victims  en- 
abled him  to  prove  that,  not  only  was  the 
flesh  intact,  but  the  joints  were  flexible,  the 
viscera  were  moist,  defalcation  persisted,  and 
vestiges  of  irritability  even  were  present,  all 
of  which  facts  were  scarcely  compatible 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  41,  44.     The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap. 
I.,  "  The  Buprestis-hunting  Cerceris." 
156 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

"  with  the  supposition  of  an  animal  abso- 
lutely dead,  the  hypothesis  of  a  true  corpse 
rendered  incorruptible  by  the  effect  of  a 
liquid  preservative."  He  was  thus  led  to 
conclude  that  the  insect  was  not  dead,  but 
only  benumbed  and  reduced  to  a  state  of  im- 
mobility. 

Fascinated  and  intrigued  by  Dufour's  dis- 
covery, Fabre  wished  to  see  the  process  for 
himself,  and  as  a  result  he  made  the  first  and 
the  finest  of  his  own  entomological  discov- 
eries, which  he  was  later  on  to  enrich  by  more 
precise  and  more  remarkable  details. 

But  at  the  same  time  he  was  forced  to  re- 
alise how  incomplete  and  superficial  were  the 
observations  of  the  man  whom  he  neverthe- 
less revered  as  the  first  among  his  masters. 

How  often  was  he  to  find  occasion  for  re- 
vising the  statements  of  his  predecessors  1 
They  were  not  merely  incomplete;  they  were 
often  erroneous,  even  when  they  had  the 
greatest  names  to  recommend  them. 

Must  we  then  ignore  all  that  has  been  said 
and  written  and  wholly  repudiate  the  inher- 
itance of  the  centuries  and  the  scientists  of 
the  past?  Heaven  preserve  us  from  such 
stupidity!  But  while  it  would  not  be  rea- 
sonable or  even  possible  to  make  a  clean 
sweep  of  all  that  has  been  acquired  by  our 
157 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

predecessors,  it  is  none  the  less  prudent  not 
to  accept,  in  blind  confidence,  the  whole  her- 
itage of  the  past,  but  to  subject  to  the  con- 
trol of  facts  the  statements  even  of  the  mas- 
ters when  these  appear  at  all  extravagant. 
Otherwise  we  run  the  risk,  if  not  of  perpe- 
trating error  by  repeating  it  on  our  own  re- 
sponsibility, at  all  events  of  following  a  false 
trail  on  which  we  may  lose  much  time  and 
which  may  finally  lead  us  to  envy  the  lot  of 
those  who  are  able  to  attack  their  subject, 
from  the  very  first,  with  minds  empty  of  all 
information  and  any  preconceived  ideas. 
This  was  brought  well  home  to  Fabre  by  the 
repeated  experience  of  errors  which  had  es- 
caped the  most  learned  authors  and  erroneous 
methods  suggested  by  the  best  books.  And 
the  persuasive  effect  of  the  highly  sympto- 
matic example  afforded  by  an  absolutely  un- 
rivalled master  was  even  more  eloquent. 

Unexpectedly,  one  fine  day  [writes  Fabre],  Pas- 
teur rang  my  door-bell:  the  Pasteur  who  was 
presently  to  acquire  so  great  a  celebrity.  His  name 
was  known  to  me.  I  had  read  his  beautiful  essay 
on  the  dissymmetry  of  tartaric  acid ;  I  had  followed 
with  the  keenest  interest  his  researches  concerning 
the  generation  of  the  Infusoria. 

Every  period  has  its  scientific  craze;  to-day  it  is 
evolution;  then  it  was  spontaneous  generation.  By 
I58 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

his  glass  bulbs,  made  sterile  or  fertile  at  will,  by 
his  experiments,  magnificent  in  their  rigorous  sim- 
plicity, Pasteur  exploded  for  ever  the  insanity  which 
professed  to  see  life  arising  from  a  chemical  con- 
flict in  a  mass  of  putrescence. 

Aware  of  this  dispute,  so  victoriously  elucidated, 
I  gave  my  illustrious  visitor  the  best  of  welcomes. 
The  scientist  had  come  to  me  in  the  first  place  for 
certain  information.  I  owed  this  notable  honour 
to  my  quality  of  colleague  as  a  teacher  of  physics 
and  chemistry.  Ah,  but  what  a  humble,  obscure 
colleague ! 

Pasteur's  tour  through  the  district  of  Avignon 
was  in  connection  with  sericulture.  For  some 
years  the  silk-worm  nurseries  had  been  at  sixes  and 
sevens,  ravaged  by  unknown  plagues.  The  silk- 
worms, without  appreciable  cause,  became  masses  of 
putrid  deliquescence,  or  hardened  into  stony  lumps. 
The  peasant,  in  dismay,  saw  one  of  his  chief  sources 
of  income  disappearing;  after  much  expense  and 
trouble  he  had  to  throw  his  litters  on  the  dung- 
heap. 

A  few  words  were  exchanged  concerning  the 
prevailing  evil;  then,  without  further  pream- 
ble: 

"  I  wanted  to  see  some  cocoons,"  said  my  visitor; 
"  I  have  never  seen  any ;  I  know  them  only  by  name. 
Could  you  get  me  some  ?  " 

"  Nothing  simpler.  My  landlord  is  himself  a 
dealer  in  cocoons,  and  he  lives  across  the  road.  If 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  wait  a  moment,  I  will 
bring  you  what  you  want." 

159 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

A  few  long  strides  and  I  had  reached  my  neigh- 
bour's house,  where  I  stuffed  my  pockets  with 
cocoons.  On  my  return  I  offered  them  to  the 
scientist.  He  took  one,  turned  it  over  and  over  in 
his  fingers;  curiously  he  examined  it,  as  we  should 
some  singular  object  which  had  come  from  the 
other  end  of  the  world.  He  shook  it  against  his 
ear. 

"It  rattles!"  he  said,  quite  surprised.  "There 
is  something  inside !  " 

"Why,  yes!" 

"But  what?" 

"  The  chrysalis." 

"What's  that,  the  chrysalis?" 

"  I  mean  the  sort  of  mummy  into  which  the 
caterpillar  turns  before  it  becomes  a  moth." 

"  And  in  every  cocoon  there  is  one  of  those 
things  ?  " 

"  Of  course ;  it's  to  protect  the  chrysalis  that  the 
caterpillar  spins." 

"Ah!" 

And  without  more  ado,  the  cocoons  went  into  the 
pocket  of  the  scientist,  who  was  to  inform  him- 
self at  leisure  concerning  this  great  novelty,  the 
chrysalis.  This  magnificent  assurance  impressed 
me.  Knowing  nothing  of  caterpillar,  cocoon,  chrys- 
alis, or  metamorphosis,  Pasteur  had  come  to  re- 
generate the  silkworm.  The  ancient  gymnasts 
presented  themselves  naked  for  the  contest.  This 
ingenious  thinker,  who  was  to  fight  the  plague  of 
the  silk-worm  nurseries,  had  also  hastened  to  bat- 
tle wholly  naked:  that  is,  devoid  of  the  simplest 
1 60 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

notions  of  the  insect  he  was  to  save  from  danger. 
I  was  astounded;  more,  I  was  filled  with  wonder.1 

The  fact  is  indeed  so  extraordinary  that 
it  may  well  appear  incredible,  but  it  receives 
authentic  confirmation  from  the  wholly  con- 
cordant account  of  Duclaux,  Pasteur's  pupil 
and  historiographer,  as  well  as  from  the  hon- 
esty of  the  naturalist,  who  is  assuredly  in- 
capable of  having  invented  the  story  for  our 
amusement. 

I  still  remember  the  day  [says  Duclaux]  when 
Pasteur,  returning  to  the  laboratory,  said  to  me  with 
a  touch  of  excitement  in  his  voice: 

"  Do  you  know  what  M.  Dumas  has  just  asked 
of  me?  To  go  to  the  Midi,  to  study  the  silk-worm 
disease." 

I  don't  know  what  I  replied ;  probably  what  he 
himself  replied  to  his  illustrious  master:  Then 
there  is  a  silk-worm  disease?  There  are  provinces 
that  are  being  ruined  by  it?  All  this  was  happen- 
ing so  far  from  Paris,  and  we  were  so  far  from 
Paris  in  the  laboratory!  .  .  . 

Pasteur  hesitated.  He  was  not  a  physiologist. 
But  Dumas'  insistence,  the  attraction  of  the  un- 
known, and  an  inward  voice  urged  him  to  accept. 
So  he  left  for  the  Midi;  it  was  early  in  June  1865. 
He  was  invested  with  an  official  mission  which  con- 
fronted him  with  a  plague  that  had  to  be  conquered 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  326-328. 

161 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

and  obliged  him  to  render  an  account  of  the  at- 
tempts made  and  the  results  obtained. 

To  be  sent  to  fight  a  fire  and  not  to  know  what 
fire  is  and  to  have  no  fire-engine  or  hose!  It 
needed  Pasteur  to  accept  and  to  shoulder  such  a 
responsibility!  .  .  .  To  his  complaint  that  he  had 
no  knowledge  of  the  matter,  Dumas  had  replied: 

"So  much  the  better!  You  will  have  no  ideas 
on  the  subject  but  those  that  will  come  to  you  as 
a  result  of  your  own  observations!  " 

This  reply  is  not  always  a  paradox,  but  one  has 
to  be  careful  to  whom  one  makes  it ! x 

In  this  case  the  choice  was  not  mistaken, 
and  the  lesson  was  as  profitable  to  Pasteur 
as  it  was  to  Fabre,  to  whom  he  was  about  to 
hand  it  on,  all  unsuspecting. 

When  Pasteur  was  called  upon  to  regener- 
ate seri-culture,  the  silk-worm  disease  had 
been  known  for  twenty  years.  During  that 
period  much  research  had  been  undertaken 
and  many  efforts  had  been  made,  in  France 
as  well  as  in  Italy,  to  discover  the  nature  of 
the  affection  and  to  fight  it.  But  "  of  all  this 
story,  a  mixture  of  truth  and  falsehood,  Pas- 
teur knew  nothing  when  he  began  his  re- 
searches." More — and  this  was  what  aston- 
ished Fabre — he  knew  nothing  of  the  physi- 
ology or  the  rearing  of  the  silk-worm.  "  For 

1  Duclaux,  Pasteur,  Histolre  d'un  Esprit,  pp.   182-93. 
162 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

the  first  time  he  has  seen  a  cocoon,  and  has 
learned  that  there  is  something  in  the  cocoon, 
a  rough  model  of  the  future  moth,"  .  .  . 
and  he  is  about  to  revolutionise  the  hygiene 
of  the  silk-worm  nurseries  and  is  preparing 
to  revolutionise  medicine  and  general  hy- 
giene in  the  same  way,1  by  showing  that  the 
maladies  of  silk-worms  and  most  of  our  hu- 
man maladies  arise  from  the  development  in 
the  tissues  of  a  microscopic  living  entity,  a 
microbe,  the  cause  of  the  malady.  And  while 
his  other  discoveries  won  for  him  only  fame 
and  the  admiration  of  his  contemporaries, 
this  will  give  him  immortality  and  place  him 
in  the  front  rank  of  the  benefactors  of  hu- 
manity. Decidedly  ignorance  may  have  its 
advantages. 

Encouraged  by  the  magnificent  example  of  Pas- 
teur (continues  the  entomologist),  I  have  made  it 
a  rule  to  adopt  the  method  of  ignorance  in  my  in- 
vestigations of  the  instincts.  I  read  very  little. 
Instead  of  turning  over  the  leaves  of  books,  an 
expensive  method  which  is  not  within  my  means,  in- 
stead of  consulting  others,  I  set  myself  obstinately 
face  to  face  with  my  subject  until  I  contrive  to 
make  it  speak.  I  know  nothing.  So  much  the 
better;  my  interrogation  will  be  all  the  freer,  to- 
day tending  in  one  direction,  to-morrow  in  an- 
other, according  to  the  information  acquired.  And 

1  Souvenirs,  IX.,  p.  330. 

163 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

if  by  chance  I  do  open  a  book,  I  am  careful  to  leave 
a  section  of  my  mind  wide  open  to  doubt.1 

Beginning  with  that  arising  out  of  Du- 
four's  memoir,  repeated  experiences  taught 
Fabre  not  to  be  too  greatly  influenced,  in  his 
conceptions  of  natural  objects,  by  faith  in  his 
reading  or  even  in  the  assertions  of  his  mas- 
ters. To  go  still  further,  Pasteur's  example 
made  him  appreciate  the  advantage  of  com- 
ing fresh  to  the  facts,  of  confronting  them 
in  a  state  of  ignorance,  of  receiving  impres- 
sions from  them  alone,  and  of  having  no 
ideas  but  those  that  truly  emanate  from  the 
reality. 

Without  going  to  extremes,  Fabre  bene- 
fited by  this  twofold  lesson.  No  one  had  a 
greater  respect  for  his  masters;  he  quotes 
them  readily  and  is  chary  neither  of  praising 
their  works  nor  of  expressing  his  gratitude 
to  them;2  but  no  one  was  ever  more  inde- 
pendent in  his  researches  and  his  conclusions, 
which  are  often  the  very  contrary  of  theirs. 
If  he  revered  his  masters  he  revered  the  truth 
still  more,  and  he  might  well  have  made  his 
own  the  celebrated  maxim:  Amicus  Plato, 
magis  arnica  veritas. 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  330-331. 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  40,  73;  II.,  pp.  78,  83,  181,  214,  234, 
235>  283;  v.,  pp.  76,  188,  229,  etc. 
l64 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

Let  us  add  that  while  no  one  was  ever 
more  interested  in  authors  and  their  writings, 
to  purchase  which  he  often  sacrificed  his  last 
coppers,  and  even  his  daily  bread,  no  one 
was  more  resolutely  determined  to  give  the 
first  place  to  the  language  of  facts,  and  di- 
rect intercourse  with  the  tiny  living  creatures 
whom  he  had  chosen  for  his  own.  So  much 
so  that,  if  we  wish  fully  to  describe  his 
method,  we  must  complete  the  maxim  which 
we  have  just  quoted  by  this  other,  which 
forms  its  exact  counterpart:  Amiens  liber, 
magis  arnica  natura. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  PROFESSOR:  AVIGNON  (CONTINUED) 

WHEN   Pasteur  called  upon  Fabre,   at 
the  beginning  of  his  investigation  of 
the  silk-growing  industry,  he  was  also  greatly 
interested  in  the  improvement  of  wines  by 
the  application  of  heat.1    Thus  it  was  that, 

1  Everybody  knows  to-day  that  heat  kills,  or  so  far 
enfeebles  as  to  render  inoffensive,  the  microbes  that  in- 
fact  liquids  and  make  it  impossible  to  preserve  them. 

This  again  is  one  of  Pasteur's  happy  discoveries,  as 
is  conveyed  by  the  very  verb  to  pasteurise,  which  means 
"  to  protect  against  microbes  by  the  action  of  heat."  We 
pasteurise  milk,  beer,  wine,  etc. 

The  ancients  used  to  practise  the  heating  of  wines. 
In  the  house  of  St.  John  and  St.  Paul,  discovered  in  Rome 
in  1887,  beneath  the  church  dedicated  to  the  two  martyrs, 
who  were  both  officers  of  the  Emperor  Constantine, 
the  excavators  found  beside  the  cellar  and  the  amphora; 
of  wine,  the  little  room  with  a  fireplace  known  as  the 
jurnarium,  which  was  used  for  heating  wine  and  drying 
fruit. 

The  heating  of  wines  was  practised  also  at  Meze,  near 
Cette,  before  Pasteur's  discovery. 

But  the  ancient  method  of  heating  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  pasteurisation.  The  merchants  of  Herault, 
like  the  ancients,  used  to  heat  wine  in  order  to  modify 
its  flavour,  to  mature  it  more  quickly.  Pasteur,  on  the 
other  hand,  heats  it  to  keep  it  unchanged.  To  mature 
wine  it  is  heated  slowly  in  contact  with  the  air.  To 
preserve  it,  the  wine  must  be  rapidly  heated  to  122°  F. 
in  a  vacuum.  The  object  and  the  method  are  altogether 
different. 

166 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

having  obtained  the  needed  information  re- 
specting the  silk-worm  from  the  Avignon 
naturalist,  he  suddenly  asked  him  to  show 
him  his  cellar.  Fabre  found  the  request  ex- 
tremely embarrassing: 

To  show  him  my  cellar!  My  private  cellar! 
And  I,  poor  wretch,  but  a  while  ago,  with  my  pre- 
posterous professor's  salary,  could  not  even  permit 
myself  the  expense  of  a  drop  of  wine,  so  that  I 
used  to  make  myself  a  sort  of  rough  cider,  by  plac- 
ing a  jar,  to  ferment,  a  handful  of  brown  sugar  and 
some  grated  apples!  My  cellar!  Show  him  my 
cellar!  Why  not  my  tuns  of  wine,  my  dusty  bot- 
tles, labelled  according  to  age  and  vintage!  My 
cellar! 

Completely  confused,  I  tried  to  evade  his  re- 
quest, to  change  the  subject.  But  he  was  tena- 
cious. 

"  Show  me  your  cellar,  I  beg  you." 

There  was  no  possibility  of  resisting  such  in- 
sistence. 

With  my  finger  I  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the 
kitchen  where  there  was  a  chair  without  a  seat, 
and  on  the  chair  a  demijohn  holding  a  couple  of 
gallons. 

"There's  my  cellar,  monsieur!" 

"Your  cellar?    That?" 

"  I  have  no  other." 

"That's  all?" 

"Alas,  yes.    That's  all!" 
I67 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

"Ah!" 

Not  a  word  more  from  the  scientist.  Pasteur, 
it  was  easy  to  see,  knew  nothing  of  those  highly- 
flavoured  dishes  which  the  common  people  call  la 
vache  enragee.  If  my  cellar,  that  is  the  old  chair 
and  the  hollow-sounding  demijohn,  had  nothing  to 
tell  concerning  the  ferments  to  be  fought  by  means 
of  heat,  it  spoke  very  eloquently  of  another  sub- 
ject, which  my  illustrious  visitor  did  not  appear  to 
understand.  One  microbe  evaded  him,  and  it  was 
one  of  the  most  terrible;  the  microbe  of  misfor- 
tune strangling  good  will.1 

It  is  told  of  one  of  our  most  famous  dram- 
atists who,  like  Fabre,  is  a  self-made  man, 
having  raised  himself  by  persistent  effort 
from  the  workshop  to  the  Academy,  that 
when  he  was  struggling  against  the  difficul- 
ties of  the  first  steps  upward,  he  had  also 
to  contend  against  the  impassive  coldness  of 
eminent  colleagues  from  whom  he  might  have 
expected  some  support.  "  Young  man,"  said 
one  of  these — and  he  was  not  one  of  the 
least  illustrious — "  young  man,  la  vache  en- 
ragee is  excellent;  to  help  you  would  be  to 
spoil  you." 

No  doubt  the  vache  enragee,  like  the 
method  d'ignorance,  may  have  its  virtues. 
The  story  of  Fabre's  career,  and  of  Brieux', 

1  Souvenirs,  IX.,   pp.   329-30. 

168 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

goes  to  prove  as  much.  But  of  this  sort  of 
discipline,  like  that  which  extols  the  advan- 
tages of  ignorance,  we  may  remark  that  one 
may  have  too  much  of  it;  that  it  succeeds 
only  on  condition  of  being  applied  with  mod- 
eration and  discretion. 

A  robust  child  of  the  Rouergat  peasantry, 
such  as  Fabre,  is  capable  of  enduring  an 
abnormal  dose  with  unusual  results.  But  un- 
der too  great  strain  steel  of  the  toughest 
temper  is  in  danger  of  being  broken  or  fa- 
tigued. In  hours  of  difficulty  and  suffering, 
if  they  are  unduly  prolonged,  the  most  reso- 
lute and  courageous  feel  the  need  of  an  en- 
couraging voice,  and  a  hand  outstretched  to 
give  the  moral  or  even  the  material  help  with 
which  one  cannot  always  dispense  with  im- 
punity. 

This  friendly  voice,  this  helping  hand, 
which  Fabre  failed  to  find  in  the  great  bene- 
factor of  humanity  who  witnessed  his  distress 
— so  true  is  it  that  the  best  of  us  have  their 
defects  and  their  seasons  of  inattention — he 
was  presently  to  find  unexpectedly  enough,  in 
one  of  his  official  chiefs,  whose  first  appear- 
ance in  his  life  was  to  him  like  a  warm  "  ray 
of  sunlight "  piercing  the  icy  atmosphere  of 
winter. 

The  incident  is  worth  recording:  it  is  all 
169 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  more  delightful  in  that  Fabre,  instead  of 
thrusting  himself  forward,  sought  rather  to 
draw  back,  seeming  more  anxious  to  avoid 
than  to  recommend  himself  for  administra- 
tive favours. 

The  chief  inspectors  visited  our  grammar-school. 
These  personages  travel  in  pairs:  one  attends  to 
literature,  the  other  to  science.  When  the  inspec- 
tion was  over  and  the  books  checked,  the  staff  was 
summoned  to  the  principal's  drawing-room,  to  re- 
ceive the  parting  admonitions  of  the  two  luminaries. 
The  man  of  science  began.  I  should  be  sadly  put 
to  it  to  remember  what  he  said.  It  was  cold  pro- 
fessional prose,  made  up  of  soulless  words  which  the 
hearer  forgot  once  the  speaker's  back  was  turned, 
words  merely  boring  to  both.  I  had  heard  enough 
of  these  chilly  sermons  in  my  time;  one  more  of 
them  could  not  hope  to  make  an  impression 
on  me. 

The  inspector  in  literature  spoke  next.  At  the 
first  words  which  he  uttered,  I  said  to  myself: 

"Oho!     This  is  a  very  different  business!" 

The  speech  was  alive  and  vigorous  and  image- 
ful;  indifferent  to  scholastic  commonplaces,  the 
ideas  soared,  hovering  gently  in  the  serene  heights 
of  a  kindly  philosophy.  This  time,  I  listened  with 
pleasure;  I  even  felt  stirred.  Here  was  no  official 
homily:  it  was  full  of  impassioned  zeal,  of  words 
that  carried  you  with  them,  uttered  by  an  honest 
man  accomplished  in  the  art  of  speaking,  an  orator 
170 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  In  all  my  school 
experience,  I  had  never  had  such  a  treat. 

When  the  meeting  broke  up  my  heart  beat  faster 
than  usual: 

"  What  a  pity,"  I  thought,  "  that  my  side,  the 
science  side,  cannot  bring  me  into  contact,  some 
day,  with  that  inspector!  It  seems  to  me  that  we 
should  become  great  friends." 

I  inquired  his  name  of  my  colleagues,  who  were 
always  better-informed  than  I.  They  told  me  it 
was  Victor  Duruy. 

Well,  one  day,  two  years  later,  as  I  was  looking 
after  my  Saint-Martial  laboratory  in  the  midst  of 
the  steam  from  my  vats,  with  my  hands  the  colour 
of  boiled  lobster-claws  from  constant  dipping  in 
the  indelible  red  of  my  dyes,  there  walked  in,  un- 
expectedly, a  person  whose  features  straightway 
seemed  familiar.  I  was  right ;  it  was  the  very  man, 
the  chief-inspector  whose  speech  had  once  stirred 
me.  M.  Duruy  was  now  Minister  of  Public  In- 
struction. He  was  styled  "  Your  Excellency "  ; 
and  this  style,  usually  an  empty  formula,  was  well- 
deserved  in  the  present  case,  for  our  new  minister 
excelled  in  his  exalted  functions.  We  all  held 
him  in  high  esteem.  He  was  the  workers'  minis- 
ter, the  man  for  the  humble  toiler. 

"  I  want  to  spend  my  last  half-hour  at  Avignon 
with  you,"  said  my  visitor  with  a  smile.  "  That 
will  be  a  relief  from  the  official  bowing  and  scrap- 
ing." 

Overcome  by  the  honour  paid  me,  I  apologised 
for  my  costume — I  was  in  my  short-sleeves — and 
171 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

especially  for  my  lobster-claws,  which  I  had  tried, 
for  a  moment,  to  hide  behind  my  back. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  apologise  for.  I  came  to 
see  the  worker.  The  working-man  never  looks 
better  than  in  his  overall,  with  the  marks  of  his 
trade  on  him.  Let  us  have  a  talk.  What  are  you 
doing  just  now?  " 

I  explained,  in  a  few  words,  the  object  of  my 
researches;  I  showed  my  product;  I  executed  un- 
der the  minister's  eyes  a  little  attempt  at  printing 
in  madder-red.  The  success  of  the  experiment  and 
the  simplicity  of  my  apparatus,  in  which  an  evap- 
orating dish,  maintained  at  boiling-point  under  a 
glass  funnel,  took  the  place  of  a  steam-chamber, 
caused  him  some  surprise. 

"  I  will  help  you,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you 
want  for  your  laboratory?" 

"  Why,  nothing,  Monsieur  le  Ministre,  noth- 
ing! With  a  little  application,  the  plant  I  have 
is  ample." 

"What,  nothing!  You  are  unique  there!  The 
others  overwhelm  me  with  requests;  their  labora- 
tories are  never  well  enough  supplied.  And  you, 
poor  as  you  are,  refuse  my  offers !  " 

"  No,  there  is  one  thing  which  I  will  accept." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  The  signal  honour  of  shaking  you  by  the 
hand." 

"  There  you  are,  my  friend,  with  all  my  heart. 
But  that's  not  enough.  What  else  do  you 
want?  " 

"  The  Paris  Jardin  des  Plantes  is  under  your 
172 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

control.  Should  a  crocodile  die,  let  them  keep  the 
hide  for  me.  I  will  stuff  it  with  straw  and  hang 
it  from  the  ceiling.  Thus  adorned,  my  workshop 
will  rival  the  wizard's  den." 

The  minister  cast  his  eyes  round  the  nave  and 
glanced  up  at  the  Gothic  vault: 

"  Yes,  it  would  look  very  well."  And  he  gave 
a  laugh  at  my  sally.  "  I  now  know  you  as  a  chem- 
ist," he  continued.  "  I  knew  you  already  as  a 
naturalist  and  a  writer.  I  have  heard  about  your 
little  animals.  I  am  sorry  that  I  shall  have  to 
leave  without  seeing  them.  They  must  wait  for 
another  occasion.  My  train  will  be  starting  pres- 
ently. Walk  with  me  to  the  station,  will  you  ?  We 
shall  be  alone  and  we  can  chat  a  bit  more  on  the 
way." 

We  strolled  along,  discussing  entomology  and 
madder.  My  shyness  had  disappeared.  The  self- 
sufficiency  of  a  fool  would  have  left  me  dumb;  the 
fine  frankness  of  a  lofty  mind  put  me  at  my  ease. 
I  told  him  of  my  experiments  in  natural  history, 
of  my  plans  for  a  professorship,  of  my  fight  with 
harsh  fate,  my  hopes  and  fears.  He  encouraged 
me,  spoke  to  me  of  a  better  future.  We  reached 
the  station  and  walked  up  and  down  outside,  talk- 
ing away  delightfully. 

A  poor  old  woman  passed,  all  in  rags,  her  back 
bent  by  age  and  years  of  work  in  the  fields.  She 
furtively  put  out  her  hand  for  alms.  Duruy  felt 
in  his  waistcoat,  found  a  two-franc  piece,  and  placed 
it  in  the  outstretched  hand ;  I  wanted  to  add  a  cou- 
ple of  sous  as  my  contribution,  but  my  pockets  were 
173 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

empty,  as  usual.     I  went  to  the  beggar-woman  and 
whispered  in  her  ear: 

"  Do  you  know  who  gave  you  that?  It's  the 
Emperor's  minister." 

The  poor  woman  started ;  and  her  astounded  eyes 
wandered  from  the  open-handed  swell  to  the  piece 
of  silver  and  from  the  piece  of  silver  to  the  open- 
handed  swell.  What  a  surprise!  What  a  wind- 
fall! 

"  Que  lou  bou  Dieu  ie  done  longo  vido  e  santa, 
pecdire!  "  she  said  in  her  cracked  voice. 

And,  curtseying  and  nodding,  she  withdrew,  still 
staring  at  the  coin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 
"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  asked  Duruy. 
"  She  wished  you  long  life  and  health." 
"  And  pecdire?  " 

"  Pecdire  is  a  poem  in  itself :  it  sums  up  all  the 
gentler  passions." 

And  I  myself  mentally  repeated  the  artless  vow. 
The  man  who  stops  so  kindly  when  a  beggar  puts 
out  her  hand  has  something  better  in  his  soul  than 
the  mere  qualities  that  go  to  make  a  minister. 

We  entered  the  station,  still  alone,  as  promised, 
and  I  quite  without  misgivings.  Had  I  but  fore- 
seen what  was  going  to  happen,  how  I  should  have 
hastened  to  take  my  leave!  Little  by  little  a  group 
formed  in  front  of  us.  It  was  too  late  to  fly:  I 
had  to  screw  up  my  courage.  Came  the  general 
of  division  and  his  officers,  came  the  prefect  and 
his  secretary,  the  mayor  and  his  deputy,  the  school- 
inspector  and  the  pick  of  the  staff.  The  minister 
faced  the  ceremonial  semicircle.  I  stood  next  to 
174 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

him.  A  crowd  at  one  side,  we  two  on  the  other. 
Followed  the  regulation  spinal  contortions,  the 
empty  obeisances  which  my  dear  Duruy  had  come 
to  my  laboratory  to  forget.  When  bowing  to  St. 
Roch,1  in  his  corner  niche,  the  worshipper  at  the 
same  time  salutes  the  saint's  humble  companion. 
I  was  something  like  St.  Roch's  dog  in  the  pres- 
ence of  those  honours  which  did  not  concern  me. 
I  stood  and  looked  on,  with  my  awful  red  hands 
concealed  behind  my  back,  under  the  broad  brim  of 
my  felt  hat. 

After  the  official  compliments  had  been  ex- 
changed, the  conversation  began  to  languish;  and 
the  minister  seized  my  right  hand  and  gently  drew 
it  from  the  mysterious  recesses  of  my  wideawake: 

"  Why  don't  you  show  those  gentlemen  your 
hands?"  he  said.  "Most  people  would  be  proud 
of  them." 

I  vainly  protested  with  a  jerk  of  the  elbow.  I 
had  to  comply,  and  I  displayed  my  lobster-claws. 

"  Workman's  hands,"  said  the  prefect's  secre- 
tary. "  Regular  workman's  hands." 

The  general,  almost  scandalised  at  seeing  me  in 
such  distinguished  company,  added: 

"  Hands  of  a  dyer  and  cleaner." 

"  Yes,  workman's  hands,"  retorted  the  minister, 
"  and  I  wish  you  many  like  them.  Believe  me, 
they  will  do  much  to  help  the  chief  industry  of  your 

1  St.  Roch  (1295-1327)  is  represented  in  his  statues 
with  the  dog  that  saved  his  life  by  discovering  him  in  the 
solitude  where  after  curing  the  plague-stricken  Italians, 
he  hid  himself  lest  he  should  communicate  the  pestilence 
to  others. — A.  T.  DE  M. 

175 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

city.  Skilled  as  they  are  in  chemical  work,  they 
are  equally  capable  of  wielding  the  pen,  the  pen- 
cil, the  scalpel,  and  the  lens.  As  you  here  seem 
unaware  of  it,  I  am  delighted  to  inform  you." 

This  time  I  should  have  liked  the  ground  to 
open  and  swallow  me  up.  Fortunately  the  bell 
rang  for  the  train  to  start.  I  said  good-bye  to  the 
minister  and,  hurriedly  taking  to  flight,  left  him 
laughing  at  the  trick  which  he  had  played  me. 

The  incident  was  noised  about,  could  not  help 
being  so,  for  the  peristyle  of  a  railway  station  keeps 
no  secrets.  I  then  learnt  to  what  annoyances  the 
shadow  of  the  great  exposes  us.  I  was  looked  upon 
as  an  influential  person,  having  the  favour  of  the 
gods  at  my  entire  disposal.  Place-hunters  and  can- 
vassers tormented  me.  One  wanted  a  licence  to 
sell  tobacco  and  stamps,  another  a  scholarship  for 
his  son,  another  an  increase  of  his  pension.  I  had 
only  to  ask  and  I  should  obtain,  said  they. 

O  simple  people,  what  an  illusion  was  yours! 
You  could  not  have  hit  upon  a  worse  intermediary. 
I  figuring  as  a  postulant!  I  have  many  faults,  I 
admit,  but  that  is  certainly  not  one  of  them.  I 
got  rid  of  the  importunate  people  as  best  I  could, 
though  they  were  utterly  unable  to  fathom  my 
reserve.  What  would  they  have  said  had  they 
known  of  the  minister's  offers  with  regard  to  my 
laboratory  and  my  jesting  reply,  in  which  I  asked 
for  a  crocodile-skin  to  hang  from  my  ceiling!  They 
would  have  taken  me  for  an  idiot. 

Six  months  elapsed;  and  I  received  a  letter  sum- 
moning me  to  call  upon  the  minister  at  his  office.  I 

176 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

suspected  a  proposal  to  promote  me  to  a  more  im- 
portant grammar-school,  and  wrote  begging  that  I 
might  be  left  where  I  was,  among  my  vats  and  my 
insects.  A  second  letter  arrived,  more  pressing 
than  the  first  and  signed  by  the  minister's  own 
hand.  This  letter  said: 

"  Come  at  once,  or  I  shall  send  my  gendarmes 
to  fetch  you." 

There  was  no  way  out  of  it.  Twenty-four  hours 
later  I  was  in  M.  Duruy's  room.  He  welcomed 
me  with  exquisite  cordiality,  gave  me  his  hand  and, 
taking  up  a  number  of  the  Moniteur: 

11  Read  that,"  he  said.  "  You  refused  my  chem- 
ical apparatus;  but  you  won't  refuse  this." 

I  looked  at  the  line  to  which  his  finger  pointed. 
I  read  my  name  in  the  list  of  the  Legion  of  Honour. 
Quite  stupid  with  surprise,  I  stammered  the  first 
words  of  thanks  that  entered  my  head. 

"  Come  here,"  said  he,  "  and  let  me  give  you 
the  accolade.  I  will  be  your  sponsor.  You  will 
like  the  ceremony  all  the  better  if  it  is  held  in  pri- 
vate, between  you  and  me :  I  know  you !  " 

He  pinned  the  red  ribbon  to  my  coat,  kissed  me 
on  both  cheeks,  made  me  telegraph  the  great  event 
to  my  family.  What  a  morning,  spent  with  that 
good  man ! 

I  well  know  the  vanity  of  decorative  ribbonry 
and  tinware,  especially  when,  as  too  often  hap- 
pens, intrigue  degrades  the  honour  conferred;  but, 
coming  as  it  did,  that  bit  of  ribbon  is  precious  to 
me.  It  is  a  relic,  not  an  object  for  show.  I  keep 
it  religiously  in  a  drawer. 

177 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

There  was  a  parcel  of  big  books  on  the  table,  a 
collection  of  the  reports  on  the  progress  of  science 
drawn  up  for  the  International  Exhibition  of  1867, 
which  had  just  closed. 

"  Those  books  are  for  you,"  continued  the  min- 
ister. "  Take  them  with  you.  You  can  look 
through  them  at  your  leisure:  they  may  interest 
you.  There  is  something  about  your  insects  in 
them.  You're  to  have  this  too:  it  will  pay  for 
your  journey.  The  trip  which  I  made  you  take 
must  not  be  at  your  own  expense.  If  there  is  any- 
thing over,  spend  it  on  your  laboratory." 

And  he  handed  me  a  roll  of  twelve  hundred 
francs.  In  vain  I  refused,  remarking  that  my 
journey  was  not  so  burdensome  as  all  that;  be- 
sides, his  embrace  and  his  bit  of  ribbon  were  of  in- 
estimable value  compared  with  my  disbursements. 
He  insisted: 

"  Take  it,"  he  said,  "  or  I  shall  be  very  angry. 
There's  something  else :  you  must  come  to  the  Em- 
peror with  me  to-morrow,  to  the  reception  of  the 
learned  societies." 

Seeing  me  greatly  perplexed,  and  as  though  de- 
moralised by  the  prospect  of  an  imperial  inter- 
view: 

"  Don't  try  to  escape  me,"  he  said,  "  or  look  out 
for  the  gendarmes  of  my  letter!  You  saw  the  fel- 
lows in  the  bear-skin  caps  on  your  way  up.  Mind 
you  don't  fall  into  their  hands.  In  any  case,  lest 
you  should  be  tempted  to  run  away,  we  will  go  to 
the  Tuileries  together  in  my  carriage." 

Things  happened  as  he  wished.    The  next  day,  in 
I78 


The  Professor :    Avignon 

the  minister's  company,  I  was  ushered  into  a  little 
drawing-room  at  the  Tuileries  by  chamberlains  in 
knee-breeches  and  silver-buckled  shoes.  They  were 
queer  people  to  look  at.  Their  uniforms  and  their 
stiff  gait  gave  them  the  appearance,  in  my  eyes,  of 
Beetles  who,  by  way  of  wingcases,  wore  a  great, 
gold-laced  dress-coat,  with  a  key  in  the  small  of 
the  back.  There  were  already  a  score  of  persons 
from  all  parts  waiting  in  the  room.  These  in- 
cluded geographical  explorers,  botanists,  geologists, 
antiquaries,  archaeologists,  collectors  of  prehistoric 
flints,  in  short,  the  usual  representatives  of  provin- 
cial scientific  life. 

The  Emperor  entered,  very  simply  dressed,  with 
no  parade  about  him  beyond  a  wide,  red,  watered- 
silk  ribbon  across  his  chest.  No  sign  of  majesty, 
an  ordinary  man,  round  and  plump,  with  a  large 
moustache  and  a  pair  of  half-closed  drowsy  eyes. 
He  moved  from  one  to  the  other,  talking  to  each 
of  us  for  a  moment  as  the  minister  mentioned  our 
names  and  the  nature  of  our  occupations.  He 
showed  a  fair  amount  of  information  as  he  changed 
his  subject  from  the  ice-floes  of  Spitzbergen  to  the 
dunes  of  Gascony,  from  a  Carlovingian  charter  to 
the  flora  of  the  Sahara,  from  the  progress  in  beet- 
root-growing to  Caesar's  trenches  before  Alesia. 
When  my  turn  came,  he  questioned  me  upon  the 
hypermetamorphosis  of  the  Meloidae,  my  last  es- 
say in  entomology.  I  answered  as  best  I  could, 
floundering  a  little  in  the  proper  mode  of  address, 
mixing  up  the  everyday  monsieur  with  sire,  a  word 
whose  use  was  so  utterly  new  to  me.  I  passed 
179 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

through  the  dread  straits,  and  others  succeeded 
me.  My  five  minutes'  conversation  with  an  im- 
perial majesty  was,  they  say,  a  most  distinguished 
honour.  I  am  quite  ready  to  believe  them,  but  I 
never  had  a  desire  to  repeat  it. 

The  reception  came  to  an  end,  bows  were  ex- 
changed, and  we  were  dismissed.  A  luncheon 
awaited  us  at  the  minister's  house.  I  sat  on  his 
right,  not  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  privilege:  on 
his  left  was  a  physiologist  of  great  renown.  Like 
the  others,  I  spoke  of  all  manner  of  things,  includ- 
ing even  Avignon  Bridge.  Duruy's  son,  sitting  op- 
posite me,  chaffed  me  pleasantly  about  the  famous 
bridge  on  which  everybody  dances;1  he  smiled  at 
my  impatience  to  get  back  to  the  thyme-scented 
hills  and  the  grey  olive-yards  rich  in  Grasshop- 
pers. 

"What!"  said  his  father.  "Won't  you  visit 
our  museums,  our  collections  ?  There  are  some  very 
interesting  things  there." 

"  I  know,  Monsieur  le  Ministre,  but  I  shall  find 
better  things,  things  more  to  my  taste,  in  the  in- 
comparable museum  of  the  fields." 
"  Then  what  do  you  propose  to  do?  " 
"  I  propose  to  go  back  to-morrow." 
I  did  go  back,  I  had  had  enough  of  Paris:  never 
had   I   felt  such  tortures  of   loneliness   as  in   that 

1  The  old,  partly-demolished  bridge  at  Avignon  which 
figures  in  the  well-known   French  catch: 
"  Sur   le   pont  d'Avignon, 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse  en  rond." 

(A.  T.  DE  M.) 
I  80 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

immense  whirl  of  humanity.    To  get  away,  to  get 
away  was  my  one  idea.1 

In  re-reading  this  curious  and  attractive 
episode  of  Fabre's  career,  our  mind  was 
haunted  by  the  no  less  attractive  memory  of 
another  illustrious  son  of  our  Aveyron,  which 
shares  his  glory  with  Provence.2 

Like  the  author  of  the  Souvenirs  entomolo- 
giques,  the  writer  of  the  Poesie  des  Betes  is 
the  son  of  humble  Aveyron  peasants,  who 
raised  himself  by  his  own  efforts  from  the 
first  to  the  second  grade  of  school  teachers, 
and  whose  genius,  like  that  of  Fabre,  faith- 
ful to  the  environment  in  which  he  was  born, 
confines  itself,  with  jealous  care,  like  that 
of  the  naturalist,  to  the  "  incomparable  mu- 
seum of  the  fields,"  which  he  describes  with 
the  same  clearness  of  vision  and  the  same 
sincerity  of  feeling. 

Like  Fabre,  Fabie  is  a  modest  man,  who 
does  not  readily  emerge  from  the  obscurity 
in  which  his  native  timidity  delights.  In  his 
case  again  it  needed  the  perspicacity  and 
kindliness  of  Duruy,  "  the  champion  of  the 


1  Souvenirs,  x.,  pp.  343   et  seq.     The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap   xx.,   "  Industrial   Chemistry." 

2  M.  Frangois  Fabie,  ex-professor  in  the  lycee  of  Tou- 
lon,  still   lives   in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  city,  in  the 
Villa   des   Troenes. 

181 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

modest  and  the  laborious,"  to  single  him  out 
and  drag  him  out  of  his  hole;  just  as,  at  the 
present  time,  a  Parisian  publicist,  of  whom 
his  fine  talents  have  made  a  conquest,  has 
truly  remarked,  it  needed  the  energetic  in- 
tervention of  his  friends  to  give  his  poetic 
genius  the  supreme  consecration  reserved  for 
the  works  of  our  most  eminent  writers: 
"  Thank  heaven,  the  author  of  the  Poesie 
des  Betes  and  Bonne  Terre  has  friends  who 
admire  the  poet  as  greatly  as  they  esteem 
the  man,  and  if  M.  Francois  Fabie  cannot 
make  up  his  mind  to  emerge  from  the  ob- 
scurity in  which  he  has  only  too  long,  indeed 
always,  enveloped  himself,  I  venture  to  hope 
that  they  will  not  hesitate  to  take  him  by  the 
shoulders  and  bring  him  out  into  the  broad 
light  of  day,  and  that  they  will  then  propel 
him  willy-nilly  across  the  Pont  des  Arts  at 
the  end  of  which  rises  the  dome  of  the  illus- 
trious Forty."  1 

One  might  say  the  same  of  Fabre.  Some 
one  should  have  taken  him,  too,  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  pushed  him  forcibly  across  the  Pont 
des  Arts,  and  should  then  have  kept  his  eyes 
upon  him  until  he  reached  his  destination,  lest 
he  should  turn  aside  and  fly  for  the  Pont 
d' Avignon,  for  we  must  not  forget  that  Du- 

1  Journal  d'Aveyron,  8  November  1908. 
182 


The  Professor :    Avignon 

ruy  and  his  gendarmes,  although  they  were 
capable  of  making  him  come  to  Paris,  were 
incapable  of  keeping  him  there. 

Fortunately  Fabre's  work  is  not  of  the 
kind  that  needs,  for  its  survival,  the  facti- 
tious glitter  of  honours.  By  its  own  merit 
it  assures  his  name  of  an  immortality  greater 
than  that  of  the  Immortal  Forty. 

There  were  three  men,  at  this  period  of 
Fabre's  life,  who  contributed  not  a  little  to 
kindle  or  revive  the  fires  of  his  scientific  ac- 
tivity. Dufour's  essays  furnished  the  spark 
that  made  the  inward  flame  burst  into  a  mag- 
nificent blaze  of  light.  Experience  and  the 
example  of  Pasteur  added  fuel  to  the  fire,  by 
teaching  him  to  keep  as  far  as  possible  in 
close  contact  with  nature.  Duruy's  good  will 
brought  to  this  blaze  the  vivifying  breath 
without  which  all  ardour  becomes  chilled  and 
all  light  extinguished. 

But  genius  does  not  merely  develop  under 
the  impulse  of  the  inner  life,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  the  external  life,  which  in  some  men 
is  more  potent  and  more  active;  it  is  deter- 
mined also  by  the  pressure  of  events,  of  which 
the  most  painful  are  not  always  the  least 
effectual.  Who  does  not  know  that  famous 
line  of  Musset's,  which  has  almost  become  a 
proverb : 

183 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

"  L'homme  est  un  apprenti,  la  douleur  est  son 
maitre." 

(Man's  an  apprentice,  and  his  master,  sorrow.) 

Like  so  many  others,  Fabre  learned  this 
by  cruel  yet  fortunate  experience.  He  had 
to  suffer  poverty,  lack  of  success,  and  per- 
secution, yet  these  were  to  him  so  many  step- 
ping-stones by  which  he  rose  to  the  serene 
and  solitary  height  where  his  genius  could 
at  last  unfurl  its  wings  in  freedom  and  soar 
at  will. 

While  Fabre  had  no  ambition  in  respect  of 
the  Academic,  he  was  ambitious  where  the 
University  was  concerned.  Absolutely  care- 
less of  titles  and  dignities,  he  was  particu- 
larly eager  to  learn  and  to  teach  others  as 
widely  and  as  completely  as  possible.  It  was 
not  enough  for  him  to  possess  the  knowledge 
requisite  for  a  professor  in  a  lycee,  as  it  had 
not  been  enough  to  qualify  for  a  primary 
schoolmaster.  He  wanted  to  attain  that  rare 
degree  of  knowledge  which  the  higher  edu- 
cation demands;  he  dreamed  of  occupying  a 
chair  of  natural  history  in  a  faculty.  Then 
he  could  free  himself  from  the  material 
tasks  that  constituted  the  danger  as  well  as 
the  merit  of  the  secondary  schoolmaster;  he 
could  devote  himself  at  leisure  to  those  won- 
derful naturaf  sciences  in  which  he  glimpsed, 
184 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

not  only  a  vitality  and  inspiration  that  ap- 
pealed to  his  habit  of  mind,  but  a  wealth  of 
new  subjects  to  be  treated,  of  rich  veins  to 
be  mined. 

To  serve  this  noble  ambition  he  needed 
the  prestige  of  the  degrees  that  would  lead 
to  the  coveted  chair.  He  won  them  as  he 
had  won  those  that  gave  him  access  to  the 
second  degree  of  instruction,  without  guide 
or  master,  by  the  sole  effort  of  his  mind  and 
will. 

In  1858  he  easily  won  his  degree  as  licen- 
tiate in  the  natural  sciences  before  the  Fac- 
ulty of  Toulouse. 

It  is  an  eloquent  fact  that  instead  of  be- 
ing, as  it  is  for  so  many  others,  a  goal  and 
an  end  in  itself,  the  licentiate  was  for  Fabre 
but  a  brief  parenthesis  in  his  life  of  study, 
a  stage  no  sooner  reached  than  crossed  on 
the  infinite  path  of  knowledge. 

The  next  step  was  that  of  the  doctorate. 
It  was  achieved  with  no  less  ardour  and  suc- 
cess than  the  previous  one.  This  is  almost 
all  we  can  say  of  it,  for  the  hero  of  this 
history  speaks  of  it  only  incidentally,  because 
it  is  connected  with  the  story  of  one  of  his 
insects.  But  for  the  Languedocian  Scorpion 
the  Souvenirs  would  leave  us  in  ignorance  of 
his  degee  of  Doctor  of  Science. 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

It  was  not  long  before  Fabre  saw  that  it 
was  not  enough  to  possess  all  the  scientific 
degrees  you  will  in  order  to  realise  the  long- 
cherished  project  of  teaching  natural  history 
in  a  Faculty. 

It  was  an  inspector-general  and  a  mathe- 
matician of  the  name  of  Rollier  who  under- 
took to  inform  him  of  this.  Here  is  the  in- 
cident as  related  by  Fabre  himself: 

My  colleagues  used  to  call  him  the  Crocodile. 
Perhaps  he  had  given  them  a  rough  time  in  the 
course  of  his  inspections.  For  all  his  boorish  ways 
he  was  an  excellent  man  at  heart.  I  owe  him  a 
piece  of  advice  which  greatly  influenced  my  future 
studies. 

That  day  he  suddenly  appeared,  alone,  in  the 
schoolroom,  where  I  was  taking  a  class  in  geometri- 
cal drawing.  I  must  explain  that,  at  this  time,  to 
eke  out  my  ridiculous  salary,  and,  at  all  costs,  to 
provide  a  living  for  myself  and  my  large  family,  I 
was  a  mighty  pluralist,  both  inside  the  college  and 
out.  At  the  college  in  particular,  after  two  hours 
of  physics,  chemistry  or  natural  history,  came,  with- 
out respite,  another  two  hours'  lesson,  in  which  I 
taught  the  boys  how  to  make  a  projection  in  de- 
scriptive geometry,  how  to  draw  a  geodetic  plane, 
a  curve  of  any  kind  whose  law  of  generation  is 
known  to  us.  This  was  called  graphics. 

The  sudden  irruption  of  the  dread  personage 
causes  me  no  great  flurry.  Twelve  o'clock  strikes, 
186 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

the  pupils  go  out  and  we  are  left  alone.  I  know 
him  to  be  a  geometrician.  The  transcendental 
curve,  perfectly  drawn,  may  work  upon  his  gen- 
tler mood.  I  happen  to  have  in  my  portfolio  the 
very  thing  to  please  him.  Fortune  serves  me  well, 
in  this  special  circumstance.  Among  my  boys  there 
is  one  who,  though  a  regular  dunce  at  everything 
else,  is  a  first-rate  hand  with  the  square,  the  com- 
pass, and  the  drawing-pen:  a  deft-fingered  num- 
skull, in  short. 

With  the  aid  of  a  system  of  tangents  of  which 
I  first  showed  him  the  rule  and  the  method  of  con- 
struction, my  artist  has  obtained  the  ordinary  cy- 
cloid, followed  by  the  interior  and  the  exterior  epi- 
cycloid, and,  lastly,  the  same  curves  both  length- 
ened and  shortened.  His  drawings  are  admirable 
Spiders'  webs,  encircling  the  cunning  curve  in  their 
net.  The  draughtsmanship  is  so  accurate  that  it 
is  easy  to  deduce  from  it  beautiful  theorems  which 
would  be  very  laborious  to  work  out  by  the  cal- 
culus. 

I  submit  the  geometrical  masterpieces  to  my 
chief-inspector,  who  is  himself  said  to  be  smitten 
with  geometry.  I  modestly  describe  the  method  of 
construction,  I  call  his  attention  to  the  fine  deduc- 
tions which  the  drawing  enables  one  to  make.  It 
is  labour  lost:  he  gives  but  a  heedless  glance  at  my 
sheets  and  flings  each  on  the  table  as  I  hand  it  to 
him. 

"  Alas !  "  said  I  to  myself.     "  There  is  a  storm 
brewing;  the  cycloid  won't  save  you;  it's  your  turn 
for  a  bite  from  the  Crocodile !  " 
I87 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

Not  a  bit  of  it.  Behold  the  bugbear  growing 
genial.  He  sits  down  on  a  bench,  with  one  leg 
here,  another  there,  invites  me  to  take  a  seat  by  his 
side  and,  in  a  moment,  we  are  discussing  graphics. 
Then,  bluntly: 

"  Have  you  any  money  ?  "  he  asks. 

Astounded  at  this  strange  question,  I  answer  with 
a  smile. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  says.  "  Confide  in  me. 
I'm  asking  you  in  your  own  interest.  Have  you 
any  capital  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my  poverty, 
Monsieur  1'inspecteur  general.  I  frankly  admit, 
I  possess  nothing ;  my  means  are  limited  to  my  mod- 
est salary." 

A  frown  greets  my  answer;  and  I  hear,  spoken 
in  an  undertone,  as  though  my  confessor  were  talk- 
ing to  himself: 

"  That's  sad,  that's  really  very  sad." 

Astonished  to  find  my  penury  treated  as  sad,  I 
ask  for  an  explanation:  I  was  not  accustomed  to 
this  solicitude  on  the  part  of  my  superiors. 

"  Why,  yes,  it's  a  great  pity,"  continues  the  man 
reputed  so  terrible.  "  I  have  read  your  articles  in 
the  Annales  des  sciences  naturelles.  You  have  an 
observant  mind,  a  taste  for  research,  a  lively  style 
and  a  ready  pen.  You  would  have  made  a  capital 
university-professor." 

"  But  that's  just  what  I'm  aiming  at!  " 

"  Give  up  the  idea." 

"  Haven't  I  the  necessary  attainment?" 

''Yes,  you  have;  but  you  have  no  capital." 
188 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

The  great  obstacle  stands  revealed  to  me:  woe 
to  the  poor  in  pocket!  University  teaching  de- 
mands a  private  income.  Be  as  ordinary,  as  com- 
monplace as  you  please;  but,  above  all,  possess  the 
coin  that  lets  you  cut  a  dash.  That  is  the  main 
thing;  the  rest  is  a  secondary  condition. 

And  the  worthy  man  tells  me  what  poverty  in 
a  frock-coat  means.  Though  less  of  a  pauper  than 
I,  he  has  known  the  mortification  of  it;  he  de- 
scribes it  to  me,  excitedly,  in  all  its  bitterness. 
I  listen  to  him  with  an  aching  heart;  I  see  the 
refuge  which  was  to  shelter  my  future  crumbling 
before  my  eyes: 

"  You  have  done  me  a  great  service,  sir,"  I 
answer.  "  You  put  an  end  to  my  hesitation.  For 
the  moment,  I  give  up  my  plan.  I  will  first  see 
if  it  is  possible  to  earn  the  small  fortune  which  I 
shall  need  if  I  am  to  teach  in  a  decent  manner." 

Thereupon  we  exchanged  a  friendship  grip  of 
the  hand  and  parted.  I  never  saw  him  again. 
His  fatherly  arguments  had  soon  convinced  me:  I 
was  prepared  to  hear  the  blunt  truth.  A  few 
months  earlier  I  had  received  my  nomination  as  an 
assistant-lecturer  in  zoology  at  the  university  of 
Poitiers.  They  offered  me  a  ludicrous  salary. 
After  paying  the  costs  of  moving,  I  should  have 
had  hardly  three  francs  a  day  left;  and,  on  this 
income,  I  should  have  had  to  keep  my  family, 
numbering  seven  in  all.  I  hastened  to  decline 
the  very  great  honour. 

No,  science  ought  not  to  practise  these  jests.  If 
we  humble  persons  are  of  use  to  her,  she  should 
189 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

at  least  enable  us  to  live.  If  she  can't  do  that, 
then  let  her  leave  us  to  break  stones  on  the  high- 
way. Oh,  yes,  I  was  prepared  for  the  truth  when 
that  honest  fellow  talked  to  me  of  frock-coated 
poverty!  I  am  telling  the  story  of  a  not  very  dis- 
tant past.  Since  then  things  have  improved  con- 
siderably; but,  when  the  pear  was  properly  rip- 
ened, I  was  no  longer  of  an  age  to  pick  it. 

However,  notwithstanding  Rollier's  con- 
fidences, Fabre  had  deferred  rather  than  defi- 
nitely abandoned  the  execution  of  his  project. 
Since  his  impecuniosity  was  the  only  obstacle 
to  the  realisation  of  his  wishes,  could  he  not 
seek  to  uplift  himself,  as  others  had  done,  by 
daring  and  willing?  In  the  meantime  was  it 
not  better  to  make  a  great  effort  in  this  di- 
rection than  to  remain  for  ever  sunk  in  the 
material  anxieties  and  ungrateful  tasks  of  the 
lyceef 

The  question  as  to  how  to  free  and  simul- 
taneously uplift  himself  exercised  the  mind  of 
Fabre  at  this  time. 

And  what  was  I  to  do  now  [he  writes]  to 
overcome  the  difficulty  mentioned  by  my  inspec- 
tor and  confirmed  by  my  personal  experience?  I 
would  take  up  industrial  chemistry.  The  munici- 
pal lectures  at  Saint-Martial  placed  a  spacious  and 
fairly  well-equipped  laboratory  at  my  disposal. 
Why  not  make  the  most  of  it? 
190 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

The  chief  manufacture  of  Avignon  was  madder. 
The  farmer  supplied  the  raw  material  to  the  fac- 
tories, where  it  was  turned  into  purer  and  more 
concentrated  products.  My  predecessor  had  gone 
in  for  it  and  done  well  by  it,  so  people  said.  I 
would  follow  in  his  footsteps  and  use  the  vats  and 
furnaces,  the  expensive  plant  which  I  'had  inherited. 
So  to  work. 

What  should  I  set  myself  to  produce?  I  pro- 
posed to  extract  the  colouring-substance,  alizarin, 
to  separate  it  from  the  other  matters  found  with 
it  in  the  root,  to  obtain  it  in  the  pure  state  and 
in  a  form  that  allowed  of  the  direct  printing  of 
the  stuffs,  a  much  quicker  and  more  artistic  method 
than  the  old  dyeing  process. 

Nothing  could  be  simpler  than  this  problem,  once 
the  solution  was  known;  but  how  tremendously  ob- 
scure while  it  had  still  to  be  solved!  I  dare  not 
call  to  mind  all  the  imagination  and  patience  spent 
upon  endless  endeavours  which  nothing,  not  even 
the  madness  of  them,  discouraged.  What  mighty 
meditations  in  the  sombre  church!  What  glowing 
dreams,  soon  to  be  followed  by  sore  disappoint- 
ment when  experiment  spoke  the  last  word  and 
upset  the  scaffolding  of  my  plans!  Stubborn  as 
the  slave  of  old  amassing  a  peculium  for  his  en- 
franchisement, I  used  to  reply  to  the  check  of  yes- 
terday by  the  fresh  attempt  of  to-morrow,  often 
as  faulty  as  the  others,  sometimes  the  richer  by  an 
improvement;  and  I  went  on  indefatigably,  for  I, 
too,  cherished  the  indomitable  ambition  to  set  my- 
self free. 

191 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

Should  I  succeed?  Perhaps  so.  I  at  last  had 
a  satisfactory  answer.  I  obtained,  in  a  cheap  and 
practical  fashion,  the  pure  colouring-matter,  con- 
centrated in  a  small  volume  and  excellent  for  both 
printing  and  dyeing.  One  of  my  friends  took  up 
my  process  on  a  large  scale  in  his  works;  a  few 
calico-factories  adopted  the  produce  and  expressed 
themselves  delighted  with  it.  The  future  smiled 
at  last ;  a  pink  rift  opened  in  my  grey  sky.  I  should 
possess  the  modest  fortune  without  which  I  must 
deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  teaching  in  a  university. 
Freed  of  the  torturing  anxiety  about  my  daily 
bread,  I  should  be  able  to  live  at  ease  among  my 
insects.1 

To  these  delights  of  industrial  chemistry, 
the  mistress  of  her  problems  and  rich  in  fu- 
ture promise,  were  added,  by  an  additional 
stroke  of  good  fortune,  the  flattering  con- 
gratulations and  encouragement  of  the  Min- 
ister Duruy  and  the  Emperor  Napoleon.2  It 
seemed  as  though,  after  struggling  long 
against  the  tide,  his  frail  vessel  had  a  fair 
wind  astern;  it  seemed  about  to  come  into 
port;  surely  at  last  his  utmost  desires  were 
about  to  be  realised ! 

Once  home  amidst  my  family,  I  felt  a  mighty 
load  off  my  mind  and  a  great  joy  in  my  heart, 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  pp.  338-43 ;   The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap. 
xx.,   "  Industrial   Chemistry." 

2  Cf.  supra.,  p.  135. 

192 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

where  rang  a  peal  of  bells  proclaiming  the  de- 
lights of  my  approaching  emancipation.  Little  by 
little,  the  factory  that  was  to  set  me  free  rose  sky- 
wards, full  of  promises.  Yes,  I  should  possess  the 
modest  income  which  would  crown  my  ambition 
by  allowing  me  to  descant  on  animals  and  plants 
in  a  university  chair. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Fate,  "  you  shall  not  acquire 
the  freedman's  peculium;  you  shall  remain  a  slave, 
dragging  your  chain  behind  you;  your  peal  of  bells 
rings  false !  " 

Hardly  was  the  factory  in  full  swing,  when  a 
piece  of  news  was  bruited,  at  first  a  vague  rumour, 
an  echo  of  probabilities  rather  than  certainties,  and 
then  a  positive  statement  leaving  no  room  for  doubt. 
Chemistry  had  obtained  the  madder-dye  by  arti- 
ficial means;  thanks  to  a  laboratory  concoction,  it 
was  utterly  overthrowing  the  agriculture  and  indus- 
tries of  my  district.  This  result,  while  destroying 
my  work  and  my  hopes,  did  not  surprise  me  un- 
duly. I  myself  had  toyed  with  the  problem  of 
artificial  alizarin;  and  I  knew  enough  about  it  to 
foresee  that,  in  no  very  distant  future,  the  product 
of  the  chemist's  retort  would  take  the  place  of 
the  product  of  the  fields.1 

It  was  only  a  step  from  the  Capitol  to  the 
Tarpeian  Rock.  He  who  but  now  had  dis- 
covered Peru  was  about  to  feel  more  keenly 
than  ever  the  sharp  pangs  of  poverty;  he 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  p.  353.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  xx., 
"  Industrial  Chemistry." 

193 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

whom  science  and  fortune  had  lately  con- 
spired to  raise  to  one  of  the  highest  chairs 
in  the  University  was  to  be  forced  to  descend 
from  the  modest  desk  of  a  lycee  professor; 
he  whom  the  friendship  and  admiration  of 
Duruy  had  dreamed,  it  is  said,  of  promot- 
ing to  the  high  dignity  of  tutor  to  the  Prince 
Imperial  *  was  now  to  be  forbidden  to  teach 
the  schoolgirls  of  his  own  Provence  \ 

For  it  was  about  this  time  that  "  he  at- 
tempted to  found  at  Avignon  a  sort  of  sys- 
tem of  secondary  education  for  young  girls," 
and  delivered,  in  the  ancient  abbey  of  Saint- 
Martial,  those  famous  free  lectures  which 
remained  so  celebrated  in  the  memory  of  the 
generation  of  that  period,  and  at  which  an 
eager  crowd  thronged  to  hear  him,  among 
the  most  assiduous  members  being  Rouma- 
nille,  the  friend  of  Mistral,  who  knew  the 
exquisite  secret  of  weaving  into  his  melo- 
dies "  the  laughter  of  young  girls  and  the 
flowers  of  spring." 

For  no  one  could  explain  a  fact  better  than 
Fabre;  no  one  could  elucidate  it  so  fully  and 
so  clearly.  No  one  could  teach  as  he  did, 
so  simply,  so  picturesquely,  yet  in  so  original 
a  fashion. 


1  Revue   scientifique,  May   7,    1910,   speech  by  M.   Ed- 
mond  Perrier. 

194 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

And  he  had  the  power  of  communicating 
to  his  hearers  his  own  conviction,  his  pro- 
found faith,  the  sacred  fire  that  inspired  him, 
the  passion  which  he  felt  for  all  natural 
things. 

But  there  were  sufficient  reasons  to  set  the 
sectarians  all  agog  and  excite  the  rancour 
of  the  envious,  some  regarding  this  great  nov- 
elty of  placing  the  natural  sciences  within 
reach  of  young  girls  as  a  heresy  and  even  a 
scandal,  others  finding  it  unsatisfactory  that 
this  "  irregular  person,  the  child  of  his  own 
solitary  studies,  should  fill,  by  his  work,  his 
successes,  and  the  magic  of  his  teaching,  a 
place  so  apart  and  so  disproportionate. 
Their  cavilling,  their  underhand  cabals,  their 
secret  manoeuvring  won  an  easy  triumph." 
In  what  hateful  and  tragic  fashion  we  must 
let  him  tell  us  in  his  own  words: 

The  first  of  these  removals  took  place  in  1870. 
A  little  earlier,  a  minister  who  has  left  a  lasting 
memory  in  the  university,  that  fine  man  Victor 
Duruy,1  had  instituted  classes  for  the  secondary 
education  of  girls.  This  was  the  beginning,  as  far 
as  was  then  possible,  of  the  burning  question  of 

1Jean  Victor  Duruy  (1811-1894),  author  of  a  number 
of  historical  works,  including  a  well-known  Histoire  des 
Remains,  and  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  under  Napo- 
leon in.  from  1863  to  *869.  Cf.  The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap.  xx. — A.  T.  DE  M. 

195 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

to-day.  I  very  gladly  lent  my  humble  aid  to  this 
labour  of  light.  I  was  put  to  teach  physical  and 
natural  science.  I  had  faith,  and  was  not  sparing 
of  work,  with  the  result  that  I  rarely  faced  a  more 
attentive  or  interested  audience.  The  days  on 
which  the  lessons  fell  were  red-letter  days,  espe- 
cially when  the  lesson  was  botany  and  the  table 
disappeared  from  view  under  the  treasures  of  the 
neighbouring  conservatories. 

That  was  going  too  far.  In  fact,  you  can  see 
how  heinous  my  crime  was:  I  taught  those  young 
persons  what  air  and  water  are ;  whence  the  light- 
ning comes  and  the  thunder;  by  what  device  our 
thoughts  are  transmitted  across  the  seas  and  con- 
tinents by  means  of  a  metal  wire;  why  fire  burns 
and  why  we  breathe;  how  a  seed  puts  forth  shoots 
and  how  a  flower  blossoms:  all  eminently  hateful 
things  in  the  eyes  of  some  people,  whose  feeble 
eyes  are  dazzled  by  the  light  of  day. 

The  little  lamp  must  be  put  out  as  quickly  as 
possible  and  measures  taken  to  get  rid  of  the 
officious  person  who  strove  to  keep  it  alight.  The 
scheme  was  darkly  plotted  with  the  old  maids  who 
owned  my  house  and  who  saw  the  abomination  of 
desolation  in  these  new  educational  methods.  I 
had  no  written  agreement  to  protect  me.  The 
bailiff  appeared  with  a  notice  on  stamped  paper. 
It  baldly  informed  me  that  I  must  move  out  within 
four  weeks  from  date,  failing  which  the  law  would 
turn  my  goods  and  chattels  into  the  street.  I  had 
hurriedly  to  provide  myself  with  a  dwelling.  The 
first  house  which  we  found  happened  to  be  at 
I96 


The  Professor:    Avignon 

Orange.     Thus  was  my  exodus  from  Avignon  ef- 
fected.1 

After  this  we  understand  why  it  was  that 
Fabre  cried: 

"  It  is  all  over;  the  downfall  of  my  hopes 
is  complete!" 

But  no,  beloved  master !  All  was  not  over. 
The  immortal  work  with  which  your  name 
is  connected  was  as  yet  to  be  begun.  This 
ruin,  this  mortification,  this  grievous  over- 
throw of  all  your  hopes  in  connection  with 
the  University  were  even  needed  to  lead  you 
back  to  the  fields,  to  enable  you  to  raise, 
in  all  its  amplitude  and  its  exquisite  original- 
ity, the  scientific  edifice  of  which  you  may 
say,  with  the  ancient  poet:  Exegi  monumen- 
tum  acre  perennis.2 

M.  Edmond  Perrier  very  judiciously  re- 
marked, in  his  speech  at  Serignan :  "  In  Paris, 
in  a  great  city,  you  would  have  had  great 
difficulty  in  finding  your  beloved  insects,  and 
entomology  would  have  lost  a  great  part  of 
those  magnificent  observations  which  are  the 
glory  of  French  science." 

So  it  was,  in  reality,  advantageous,  as  re- 
gards his  destiny,  that  Fabre  suffered,  at  this 

1  Souvenirs,  n.,  pp.  izs-i26.    The  Mason  Bees,  chap,  v., 
"The   story  of  my   Cats." 

2  HORACE,  Ode  xxx.,  Bk.  iii. 

197 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

juncture  of  his  history,  this  accumulation  of 
trials,  so  grievous  to  experience,  yet  so  for- 
tunate in  their  consequences  that  they  remind 
us  of  the  sublime  passage  of  the  Gospel, 
whose  sayings  regarding  eternal  life  are  often 
rich  in  lessons  for  this  our  present  life:  '*  He 
that  loses  his  life  shall  save  it." 

(End  of  the  first  volume  in  the  French 
edition.) 


198 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RETIREMENT:  ORANGE 

IT  is  commonly  enough  thought  that  a  pro- 
fessor on  his  vacations  and  a  pensioned 
official  are  very  much  the  same — that  both 
art  created  and  put  into  the  world  merely  to 
kill  time  and  savour  the  delights  of  far  niente. 
Such  was  never  Fabre's  opinion.  While  he 
loved  nothing  so  well  as  his  Thursdays  and 
vacations,  this  was  because  he  then  had  more 
freedom  to  devote  himself  to  his  favourite 
studies.  If  he  resigned  himself  readily  to  a 
premature  retirement,  if  he  was  even  happy 
to  shake  off  the  yoke  of  the  lycee,  this  was 
because  he  had  quite  definitely  determined  to 
work  more  quietly  and  continuously;  because 
he  hoped  to  increase  the  ardour  and  fertility 
of  his  mind  by  a  closer  and  more  lasting  in- 
tercourse with  the  world  of  Nature. 

At  the  same  time  he  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  look  to  his  pen  for  that  assurance 
of  material  life  which  his  retorts  had  refused 
him,  and  which  his  meagre  professor's  pen- 
sion afforded  but  insufficiently.  "  What  is 
to  be  done  now?"  he  cried,  after  the  col- 
199 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

lapse  of  his  industrial  hopes  and  professorial 
ambitions.  "  Let  us  try  another  lever  and 
resume  rolling  the  Sisyphean  stone.  Let  us 
seek  to  draw  from  the  ink-pot  what  the  mad- 
der-vat and  the  Alma  Mater  refuses  us. 
Laboremus!  " 

Laboremusf  That  indeed  is  the  fitting 
motto  for  this  period  of  his  life,  no  less  than 
for  the  earlier  part  of  it.  For  it  was  then 
that  he  wrote  the  greater  number  of  his  nu- 
merous handbooks,  now  classic,  and  it  was 
then  that  he  began  to  write  and  to  publish 
his  Souvenirs  entomologiques,  without  ceas- 
ing on  that  account  his  great  life-work,  the 
passionate  observation  of  the  living  world. 

Still,  it  is  not  so  much  the  man's  work  as 
the  man,  and  not  so  much  the  student  as  the 
man  himself,  that  we  wish  to  evoke  in  this 
chapter. 

To  live  happily,  we  must  live  hidden  from 
sight,  far  from  the  troubles  of  the  world, 
exercising  our  minds  and  cultivating  our  tal- 
ents at  leisure.  Such  evidently  was  Fabre's 
idea  from  the  time  of  his  departure  from 
Avignon;  and  it  plainly  reveals  to  us  one  of 
the  salient  features  of  his  moral  physiog- 
nomy. 

But  he  could  not  have  had  the  illusion  that 
in  thus  taking  refuge  from  the  tribulations 
200 


Retirement:    Orange 

of  which  the  world  is  the  source,  he  was  plac- 
ing himself  beyond  the  reach  of  any  trials. 
Is  it  not  written  that  the  life  of  man  upon 
earth  is  a  perpetual  struggle  against  suffer- 
ing? And  if  it  were  not  for  the  cruel 
wounds  which  it  inflicts  upon  the  poor  hu- 
man heart,  we  ought  rather  perhaps  to  bless 
this  law  of  our  destiny;  for  it  is  one  of  the 
qualities  of  human  greatness,  of  the  beauty 
of  the  soul  as  of  the  power  of  the  intellect, 
that  it  does  not  fully  reveal  itself  save  un- 
der the  discipline  and  empire  of  suffering. 

Among  the  moral  qualities  of  Fabre  as  we 
have  been  able  to  divine  them  there  is  one 
which  the  vicissitudes  of  life  revealed  more 
especially  during  this  phase  of  his  existence : 
I  mean  his  kindliness. 

Fabre  had  the  simplicity  of  the  kindly  man 
as  well  as  that  of  the  truthful  man.  He, 
who  instinctively  withdrew  from  the  gaze  and 
the  malice  of  men,  cared  nothing  for  their 
smiles  or  their  disdain  when  there  was  a 
question  of  adding  to  his  store  of  scientific 
data  or  kindly  actions,  however  trivial  the 
matter  might  be. 

The  following  episode  is  illuminating. 
Our  entomologist  was  interested,  as  a  scien- 
tist, in  discovering  whether  the  bite  of  the 
Black-bellied  Tarantula,  deadly  to  insects, 
201 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

was  dangerous  to  other  animals,  and  to  man, 
or  whether  it  was  not,  in  the  latter  case,  a 
negligible  accident.  He  therefore  experi- 
mented upon  a  bird: 

I  make  a  Tarantula  bite  the  leg  of  a  young,  well- 
fledged  Sparrow,  ready  to  leave  the  nest.  A  drop 
of  blood  flows:  the  wounded  spot  is  surrounded 
by  a  reddish  circle,  changing  to  purple.  The  bird 
almost  immediately  loses  the  use  of  its  leg,  which 
drags,  with  the  toes  doubled  in;  it  hops  upon  the 
other.  Apart  from  this,  the  patient  does  not  seem 
to  trouble  much  about  his  hurt;  his  appetite  is  good. 
My  daughters  feed  him  on  flies,  bread-crumb,  apri- 
cot-pulp. He  is  sure  to  get  well,  he  will  recover 
his  strength;  the  poor  victim  of  the  curiosity  of 
science  will  be  restored  to  liberty.  This  is  the 
wish,  the  intention  of  us  all.  Twelve  hours  later, 
the  hope  of  a  cure  increases ;  the  invalid  takes  nour- 
ishment readily;  he  clamours  for  it,  if  we  keep  him 
waiting.  But  the  leg  still  drags.  I  set  this  down 
to  a  temporary  paralysis  which  will  soon  disappear. 
Two  days  after,  he  refuses  his  food.  Wrapping 
himself  in  his  stoicism  and  his  rumpled  feathers, 
the  Sparrow  hunches  into  a  ball,  now  motionless, 
now  twitching.  My  girls  take  him  in  the  hollow 
of  their  hands  and  warm  him  with  their  breath. 
The  spasms  become  more  frequent.  A  gasp  pro- 
claims that  all  is  over.  The  bird  is  dead. 

There  was  a  certain  coolness  among  us  at  the 
evening  meal.  I  read  mute  reproaches,  because 
2O2 


Retirement:    Orange 

of  my  experiment,  in  the  eyes  of  my  home-circle; 
I  read  an  unspoken  accusation  of  cruelty  all  around 
me.  The  death  of  the  unfortunate  Sparrow  had 
saddened  the  whole  family.  I  myself  was  not 
without  some  remorse  of  conscience:  the  poor  re- 
sult achieved  seemed  to  me  too  dearly  bought.  I 
am  not  made  of  the  stuff  of  those  who,  without 
turning  a  hair,  rip  up  live  Dogs  to  find  out  nothing 
in  particular.1 

Is  there  not  something  touching  in  the 
simplicity  of  the  father  who,  with  such  good 
will,  becomes  a  child  with  his  children;  and 
in  the  compassionate  kindness  of  the  man 
who  cannot  without  grieving  witness  the 
death  of  a  Sparrow?  Fabre  indeed  pos- 
sessed in  no  common  degree  that  quality 
which,  according  to  Saint  Augustine,  is  the 
foremost  characteristic  of  spiritual  beauty 
and,  according  to  the  poet  of  the  animals, 
constitutes  the  essential  nobility  of  the  French 
mind: 

"  La  bonte,  c'est  le  fond  de  tout  ame  franchise." 
(Kindness,  the  base  of  every  Frenchman's  mind.) 

It  was,  at  all  events,  the  basis  of  his  own. 
And  we  are  conscious  of  a  fundamental  emo- 
tion, an  intimate  reprobation,  that  ascends 
from  the  depths  of  his  being  to  oppose  all 
ideas  of  violence  and  hatred. 

1  Souvenirs,  II.,  pp.  202-203.     The  Life  of  the  Spider, 
chap,  i.,  "The  Black-bellied  Tarantula." 
203 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

It  does  not  surprise  us  to  see  the  serene 
kindliness  of  our  compatriot  veiling  itself  in 
dejection  and  becoming  almost  pugnacious 
when  confronted  by  the  melancholy  exploits 
of  force;  for  how  could  he  remain  unaffected 
before  the  stupendous  barbarism  and  iniquity 
of  1870? 

At  the  time  of  his  retirement  to  Orange, 
Fabre  was  already  the  father  of  five  children : 
Antonia,  Aglae,  Claire,  Emile,  and  Jules, 
who,  in  course  of  time,  were  joined  by  three 
others,  Paul,  Anna,  and  Marie-Pauline. 

It  was  not  with  Fabre  as  with  some  intel- 
lectuals, whose  thoughts  and  life  remain  al- 
most strangers  to  the  home  which  they  estab- 
lish one  day  as  though  in  a  moment  of  dis- 
traction, and  who  divide  their  lives  into  two 
parts — one  being  devoted  to  their  profes- 
sional labours  and  the  other  reserved  for  the 
exigencies  of  family  life. 

Like  the  pages  of  his  native  country  who 
live  surrounded  by  their  wives  and  children, 
sharing  their  tasks  and  breaking  bread  with 
them,  Fabre  loved  to  make  his  family  share 
in  his  work  as  well  as  in  his  leisure.  He  too 
was  a  worker  in  the  fields,  and  was  per- 
suaded that,  just  as  there  can  never  be  too 
many  hands  at  work  to  extract  their  wealth, 
so  there  could  never  be  too  many  eyes  at 
204 


Retirement:    Orange 

work  contemplating  their  wonders.  He 
made  all  his  children,  little  as  well  as  big, 
boys  and  girls,  so  many  collaborators  in  his 
researches,  and  he  loved  to  scatter  their 
names  about  the  pages  of  his  books.  And 
it  is  not  the  least  charm  of  the  Souvenirs  that 
we  meet  in  them,  at  every  step,  the  father 
hand  in  hand  with  his  children.  Passing  to 
and  fro,  like  a  refreshing  breeze  that  blows 
through  the  scientific  aridities  of  the  subject, 
we  feel  a  twofold  current  of  sympathy  flow- 
ing from  the  father  to  his  children  and  the 
naturalist  to  his  insects. 

Incapable  of  living  without  either  of  them, 
he  found  a  way  to  devote  himself  to  both, 
and  so  closely  that  the  bond  between  them 
was  truly  one  that  held  fast  in  life  and  death. 
Aglae,  Antonia,  Claire,  Emile,  and  Jules 
were  recruited  in  turn,  and  Fabre  informs 
us  that  their  help  was  often  of  the  greatest 
value  in  his  entomological  researches.  And 
he  liked  to  attach  his  children's  names  to 
those  of  his  insects  and  his  discoveries. 
Jules  above  all  was  distinguished  by  these  en- 
tomological honours,  which  a  father's  grati- 
tude piously  laid,  with  regretful  tears,  upon 
his  untimely  grave. 

Not  content  with  dedicating  to  him  the 
first  volume  of  his  Souvenirs,  Fabre  again 
205 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 
did  homage  to  Jules  in  the  second  volume: 

To  MY  SON  JULES. — Beloved  child,  my  zealous 
collaborator  in  the  study  of  insects,  my  perspicacious 
assistant  in  the  study  of  plants,  it  was  for  your 
sake  that  I  began  this  volume;  I  have  continued 
it  for  the  sake  of  your  memory,  and  I  shall  con- 
tinue it  in  the  bitterness  of  my  mourning.  Ah! 
how  hateful  is  death  when  it  reaps  the  flower  in  all 
the  radiance  of  its  blossoming!  Your  mother  and 
your  sisters  bring  to  your  tomb  wreaths  gathered 
in  the  rustic  flower-bed  that  you  delighted  in.  To 
these  wreaths,  faded  by  a  day's  sunshine,  I  add  this 
book,  which,  I  hope,  will  have  a  to-morrow.  It 
seems  to  me  that  it  thus  prolongs  our  common  stud- 
ies, fortified  as  I  am  by  my  indomitable  faith  in 
a  reawakening  in  the  Beyond.1 

When  the  separation  from  loved  ones 
wounds  the  heart  so  grievously  and  wrings 
from  the  soul  such  accents  of  hope  and  faith, 
we  need  seek  no  other  standard  to  judge  a 
man's  moral  worth. 

The  spectacle  of  a  man,  thus  moved  by  the 
death  of  his  dear  ones,  who  yet  welcomes  his 
own  death  with  serenity,  is  admirable.  Such 
was  the  case  with  Fabre,  as  proved  by  the 
following  episode  of  the  same  date — i.e. 
1879. 

1  Souvenirs,  H.,  p.  i. 

206 


Retirement:    Orange 

I  am  living  at  Orange  in  the  year  1879.  My 
house  stands  alone  among  the  fields.  .  .  . 

After  a  hard  winter,  when  the  snow  had  lain 
on  the  ground  for  a  fortnight,  I  wanted  once  more 
to  look  into  the  matter  of  my  Halicti.  I  was  in 
bed  with  pneumonia  and  to  all  appearances  at  the 
point  of  death.  I  had  little  or  no  pain,  thank  God, 
but  extreme  difficulty  in  living.  With  the  little 
lucidity  left  to  me,  being  able  to  do  no  other  sort 
of  observing,  I  observed  myself  dying;  I  watched 
with  a  certain  interest  the  gradual  falling  to  pieces 
of  my  poor  machinery.  Were  it  not  for  the  terror 
of  leaving  my  family,  who  were  still  young,  I  would 
gladly  have  departed.  The  after-life  must  have 
so  many  higher  and  fairer  truths  to  teach  us. 

My  hour  had  not  yet  come.  When  the  little 
lamps  of  thought  began  to  emerge,  all  flickering, 
from  the  dusk  of  unconsciousness,  I  wished  to  take 
leave  of  the  Hymenoptera,  my  fondest  joy,  and  first 
of  all  of  my  neighbour,  the  Halictus.1  My  son 
Emile  took  the  spade  and  went  and  dug  the  frozen 
ground.  Not  a  male  was  found,  of  course;  but 
there  were  plenty  of  females,  numbed  with  the  cold 
in  their  cells. 

A  few  were  brought  for  me  to  see,  and,  roused 
from  their  torpor  by  the  warmth  of  the  room,  they 

1  The  Halicti  produce  two  generations  each  year:  one, 
in  the  spring,  is  the  issue  of  mothers  who,  fecundated  in 
the  autumn,  have  passed  through  the  winter;  the  other, 
produced  in  the  summer,  is  the  fruit  of  parthenogenesis, 
that  is,  of  procreation  by  the  maternal  virtualities  alone. 
Of  the  concourse  of  the  two  sexes  only  females  are  born; 
parthenogenesis  gives  rise  to  both  males  and  females. 
207 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

began  to  wander  about  my  bed,  where  I  followed 
them  vaguely  with  my  failing  eyes.2 

It  is  very  true  that,  on  leaving  Orange, 
Fabre  still  had  "  much  to  learn  "  from  the 
company  of  Hymenoptera  and  other  insects 
— the  great  period  of  his  entomological  ca- 
reer had  not  yet  begun — but  the  regret  with 
which  he  left  Orange  was  soon  dissipated 
by  the  wealth  of  observations  and  the  facili- 
ties for  study  which  his  new  home  offered 
him. 

Living  in  retirement  at  Orange,  on  the 
confines  of  the  town,  at  the  gate  of  the  fields, 
he  was  as  yet  only  in  sight  of  the  promised 
land.  At  Serignan,  in  the  quiet  obscurity  of 
quite  a  little  village,  in  the  very  midst  of 
"  the  great  museum  of  the  fields,"  he  was 
truly  in  possession  of  the  country  of  his 
dreams;  he  had  found  his  ideal  abiding-place, 
the  spot  which  was  in  most  perfect  conform- 
ity with  his  tastes  and  most  favourable  to  his 
genius. 

1  Souvenirs,  VIIL,  pp.  144-160.  The  Bramble-Bees, 
chap,  xiv.,  "  Parthenogenesis."  It  was  only  a  later  date, 
by  combining  a  series  of  successive  observations  which 
were  spread  over  a  great  length  of  years,  that  he  was 
able  to  define  exactly  the  various  modes  of  generation 
employed  by  the  Halicti,  as  described  in  the  preceding 
note. 

208 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    HERMIT   OF   SERIGNAN    (1879-1910) 

OTARTING  from  Orange  and  crossing  the 
*-J  Aygues,  a  torrent  whose  muddy  waters  are  lost 
in  the  Rhone,  but  whose  bed  is  dried  by  the  July  and 
August  suns,  leaving  only  a  desert  of  pebbles,  where 
the  Mason-bee  builds  her  pretty  turrets  of  rock- 
work,  we  come  presently  to  the  Serignaise  country; 
an  arid,  stony  tract,  planted  with  vines  and  olives, 
coloured  a  rusty  red,  or  touched  here  and  there 
with  almost  the  hue  of  blood ;  and  here  and  there 
a  grove  of  cypress  makes  a  sombre  blot.  To  the 
north  runs  a  long  black  line  of  hills,  covered  with 
box  and  ilex  and  the  giant  heather  of  the  south. 
Far  in  the  distance,  to  the  east,  the  immense  plain 
is  closed  in  by  the  wall  of  Saint-Amant  and  the 
ridge  of  the  Dentelle,  behind  which  the  lofty  Ven- 
toux  rears  its  rocky,  cloven  bosom  abruptly  to  the 
clouds.  At  the  end  of  a  few  miles  of  dusty  road, 
swept  by  the  powerful  breath  of  the  mistral,  we 
suddenly  reach  a  little  village.  It  is  a  curious  lit- 
tle community,  with  its  central  street  adorned  by 
a  double  row  of  plane-trees,  its  leaping  fountains, 
and  its  almost  Italian  air.  The  houses  are  lime- 
washed,  with  flat  roofs;  and  sometimes,  at  the  side 
of  some  small  or  decrepit  dwelling,  we  see  the  un- 
209 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

expected  curves  of  a  loggia.  At  a  distance  the 
faqade  of  the  church  has  the  harmonious  lines  of 
a  little  antique  temple;  close  at  hand  is  the  grace- 
ful campanile,  an  old  octagonal  tower  surmounted 
by  a  narrow  mitre  wrought  in  hammered  iron,  in 
the  midst  of  which  are  seen  the  black  profiles  of 
the  bells. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  little  market-town,  in  a 
solitary  corner,  in  the  centre  of  an  enclosure  of 
lofty  walls,  which  are  taller  than  the  crests  of 
the  pines  and  cypresses,  Fabre's  dwelling  is  hidden 
away.  A  pink  house  with  green  shutters,  half- 
hidden  amid  the  sombre  foliage,  appears  at  the 
end  of  an  alley  of  lilacs,  "  which  sway  in  the  spring 
under  the  weight  of  their  balmy  thyrsi."  Before 
the  house  are  the  shady  plane-trees,  where  during 
the  burning  hours  of  August  the  cicada  of  the  flow- 
ering ash,  the  deafening  cacan,  concealed  beneath 
the  leaves,  fills  the  hot  atmosphere  with  its  eager 
cries,  the  only  sound  that  disturbs  the  profound 
silence  of  this  solitude. 

There,  in  this  "  hermit's  retreat,"  as  he  himself 
has  defined  it,  the  sage  is  voluntarily  sequestered ; 
a  true  saint  of  science,  an  ascetic  living  only  on 
fruits,  vegetables,  and  a  little  wine;  so  in  love  with 
retirement  that  even  in  the  village  he  was  for  a 
long  time  almost  unknown,  so  careful  was  he  to 
go  round  instead  of  through  it  on  his  way  to  the 
neighbouring  mountain,  where  he  would  often  spend 
whole  days  alone  with  wild  nature. 

It  is  in  this  silent  Theba'id,  so  far  from  the  atmos- 
phere of  cities,  the  vain  agitations  and  storms  of 
2IO 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

the  world,  that  his  life  has  been  passed,  in  un- 
changing uniformity;  and  here  he  has  been  able 
to  pursue,  with  resolute  labour  and  incredible  pa- 
tience, that  prodigious  series  of  marvellous  observa- 
tions which  for  nearly  fifty  years  he  has  never 
ceased  to  accumulate. 

Francois  Sicard,  in  his  faultless  medal  and  his 
admirable  bust,  has  succeeded  with  rare  felicity  in 
reproducing  for  posterity  this  rugged,  shaven  face, 
full  of  laborious  years;  a  peasant  face,  stamped 
with  originality,  under  the  wide  felt  hat  of  Prov- 
ence; touched  with  geniality  and  benevolence,  yet 
reflecting  a  world  of  energy.  Sicard  has  fixed  for 
ever  this  strange  mask;  the  thin  cheeks,  ploughed 
into  deep  furrows,  the  strained  nose,  the  pendent 
wrinkles  of  the  throat,  the  thin,  shrivelled  lips, 
with  an  indescribable  fold  of  bitterness  at  the  cor- 
ners of  the  mouth.  The  hair,  tossed  back,  falls 
in  fine  curls  over  the  ears,  revealing  a  high,  rounded 
forehead,  obstinate  and  full  of  thought.  But  what 
chisel,  what  graver  could  reproduce  the  surprising 
shrewdness  of  that  gaze,  eclipsed  from  time  to 
time  by  a  convulsive  tremor  of  the  eyelids!  What 
Holbein,  what  Chardin  could  render  the  almost 
extraordinary  brilliance  of  those  black  eyes,  those 
dilated  pupils — the  eyes  of  a  prophet,  a  seer;  sin- 
gularly wide  and  deeply  set,  as  though  gazing  al- 
ways upon  the  mystery  of  things,  as  though  made 
expressly  to  scrutinise  Nature  and  decipher  her  enig- 
mas? Above  the  orbits,  two  short,  bristling  eye- 
brows seem  set  there  to  guide  the  vision ;  one,  by 
dint  of  knitting  itself  above  the  magnifying-glass, 
211 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabrc 

has  retained  an  indelible  fold  of  continual  atten- 
tion; the  other,  on  the  contrary,  always  updrawn, 
has  the  look  of  defying  the  interlocutor,  of  fore- 
seeing his  objections,  of  waiting  with  an  ever-ready 
return-thrust.1 

Is  not  the  reader  dazzled  by  the  brilliant 
colours,  the  warm  tones  of  this  picture?  The 
Provengal  light  shines  upon  his  face,  splen- 
didly avenging  us  for  the  obscurity  which  had 
too  long  withheld  him  from  the  admiration 
of  the  world. 

We  could  not  choose  a  better  guide  to  in- 
troduce us  to  the  home  of  the  Hermit  of 
Serignan,  and  to  give  us  access  to  his  person. 

In  front  of  the  house,  beyond  a  low  wall, 
of  a  comfortable  height  to  lean  on,  is  the 
most  unexpected  and  improbable  of  gardens, 
a  kind  of  couderc — that  is,  a  tract  of  poor, 
stony  ground,  of  which  the  naturalist  has 
made  a  sort  of  wild  park,  jealously  protected 
from  the  access  of  the  profane,  and  literally 
invaded  by  all  sorts  of  plants  and  insects. 
Fabre  speaks  of  this  retreat  as  follows: 

This  is  what  I  wished  for,  hoc  erat  in  votis:  a 
bit  of  land,  oh,  not  so  very  large,  but  fenced  in, 
to  avoid  the  drawbacks  of  a  public  way;  an  aban- 
doned, barren,  sun-scorched  bit  of  land,  favoured 

1  Fabre,  Poet  of  Science,  G.  V.  Legros,  pp.  108-115. 
212 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

by  thistles  and  by  Wasps  and  Bees.  Here,  without 
distant  expeditions  that  take  up  my  time,  without 
tiring  rambles  that  strain  my  nerves,  I  could  con- 
trive my  plans  of  attack,  lay  my  ambushes,  and 
watch  their  effects  at  every  hour  of  the  day.  Hoc 
erat  in  votis.  Yes,  this  was  my  wish,  my  dream, 
always  cherished,  always  vanishing  into  the  mists 
of  the  future. 

And  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  acquire  a  laboratory 
in  the  open  fields,  when  harassed  by  a  terrible 
anxiety  about  one's  daily  bread.  For  forty  years 
have  I  fought,  with  steadfast  courage,  against  the 
paltry  plagues  of  life;  and  the  long-wished-for  lab- 
oratory has  come  at  last.  What  it  has  cost  me 
in  perseverance  and  relentless  work  I  will  not  try 
to  say.  It  has  come;  and  with  it — a  more  serious 
condition — perhaps  a  little  leisure.  I  say  perhaps, 
for  my  leg  is  still  hampered  by  a  few  links  of  the 
convict's  chain. 

But  this  is  not  my  business  for  the  moment: 
I  want  to  speak  of  the  bit  of  land  long  cherished 
in  my  plans  to  form  a  laboratory  of  living  ento- 
mology, the  bit  of  land  which  I  have  at  last  ob- 
tained in  the  solitude  of  a  little  village.  It  is  a 
harmas,  the  name  given,  in  this  district,1  to  an 
untilled,  pebbly  expanse  abandoned  to  the  vege- 
tation of  the  thyme.  It  is  too  poor  to  repay  the 
work  of  the  plough;  but  the  sheep  passes  there 
in  spring,  when  it  has  chanced  to  rain  and  a  little 
grass  shoots  Up* 

!The  country  round  Serignan,  in  Provence.— A.  T. 
DE  M. 

213 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

My  harmas,  however,  because  of  its  modicum  of 
red  earth,  swamped  by  a  huge  mass  of  stones,  has 
received  a  rough  first  attempt  at  cultivation:  I 
am  told  that  vines  once  grew  here.  The  three- 
pronged  fork  is  the  only  implement  of  husbandry 
that  can  penetrate  such  a  soil  as  this;  and  I  am 
sorry,  for  the  primitive  vegetation  has  disappeared. 
No  more  thyme,  no  more  lavender,  no  more  clumps 
of  kermes-oak,  the  dwarf  oak  that  forms  forests 
across  which  we  step  by  lengthening  our  stride  a 
little.  As  these  plants,  especially  the  first  two, 
might  be  of  use  to  me  by  offering  the  Bees  and 
Wasps  a  spoil  to  plunder,  I  am  compelled  to  rein- 
state them  in  the  ground  whence  they  were  driven 
by  the  fork. 

What  abounds  without  my  mediation  is  the  in- 
vaders of  any  soil  that  is  first  dug  up  and  then 
left  for  a  long  time  to  its  own  resources.  We 
have,  in  the  first  rank,  the  couch-grass,  that  ex- 
ecrable weed  which  three  years  of  stubborn  war- 
fare have  not  succeeded  in  exterminating.  Next, 
in  respect  of  number,  come  the  centauries,  grim- 
looking  one  and  all,  bristling  with  prickles  or  starry 
halberds.  They  are  the  yellow-flowered  centaury, 
the  mountain  centaury,  the  star-thistle  and  the 
rough  centaury:  the  first  predominates.  Here  and 
there,  amid  their  inextricable  confusion,  stands, 
like  a  chandelier  with  spreading  orange  flowers  for 
lights,  the  fierce  Spanish  oyster-plant,  whose  spikes 
are  strong  as  nails.  Above  it  towers  the  Illyrian 
cottage-thistle,  whose  straight  and  solitary  stalk 
soars  to  a  height  of  three  to  six  feet  and  ends  in 
214 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

large  pink  tufts.  Its  armour  hardly  yields  before 
that  of  the  oyster-plant.  Nor  must  we  forget  the 
lesser  thistle  tribe,  with,  first  of  all,  the  prickly 
or  "  cruel "  thistle,  which  is  so  well  armed  that 
the  plant-collector  knows  not  where  to  grasp  it; 
next,  the  spear-thistle,  with  its  ample  foliage,  each 
of  its  nervures  ending  in  a  spear-head ;  lastly,  the 
black  knap-weed,  which  gathers  itself  into  a  spiky 
knot.  In  among  these,  in  long  lines  armed  with 
hooks,  the  shoots  of  the  blue  dewberry  creep  along 
the  ground.  To  visit  the  prickly  thicket  where  the 
Wasp  goes  foraging,  you  must  wear  boots  that 
come  to  mid-leg  or  else  resign  yourself  to  a  smart- 
ing in  the  calves.  As  long  as  the  ground  retains 
some  traces  of  the  vernal  rains,  this  rude  vegeta- 
tion does  not  lack  a  certain  charm.  But  let  the 
droughs  of  summer  come  and  we  see  but  a  desolate 
waste,  which  the  flame  of  a  match  would  set  ablaze 
from  one  end  to  the  other.  Such  is,  or  rather  was, 
when  I  took  possession  of  it,  the  Eden  of  bliss 
where  I  mean  to  live  henceforth  alone  with  the 
insects.  Forty  years  of  desperate  struggle  have  won 
it  for  me. 

Eden,  I  said ;  and,  from  the  point  of  view  that 
interests  me,  the  expression  is  not  out  of  place. 
This  accursed  ground,  which  no  one  would  have 
had  at  a  gift  to  sow  with  a  pinch  of  turnip-seed, 
is  an  earthly  paradise  for  the  Bees  and  the  Wasps. 
Its  mighty  growth  of  thistles  and  centauries  draws 
them  all  to  me  from  everywhere  around.  Never, 
in  my  insect-hunting  memories,  have  I  seen  so  large 
a  population  at  a  single  spot;  all  the  trades  have 
215 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

made  it  their  rallying-point.  Here  come  hunters 
of  every  kind  of  game,  builders  in  clay,  weavers 
of  cotton  goods,  collectors  of  pieces  cut  from  a 
leaf  or  the  petals  of  a  flower,  architects  in  paste- 
board, plasterers  mixing  mortar,  carpenters  boring 
wood,  miners  digging  underground  galleries,  work- 
ers in  goldbeater's  skin,  and  many  more. 

If  I  tried  to  continue  this  record  of  the  guests 
of  my  thistles,  it  would  muster  almost  the  whole 
of  the  honey-yielding  tribe.  A  learned  entomologist 
of  Bordeaux,  Professor  Perez,  to  whom  I  submit 
the  naming  of  my  prizes,  once  asked  me  if  I  had 
any  special  means  of  hunting,  to  send  him  so  many 
rarities  and  even  novelties.  The  whole  secret  of 
my  hunting  is  reduced  to  my  dense  nursery  of 
thistles  and  centauries.1 

What  has  become  of  the  days  when  the 
entomologist  lived  far  from  his  beloved  in- 
sects, when  he  had  to  seek  them  in  all  direc- 
tions, and  even  to  chase  them  through  fields 
and  vineyards,  at  the  risk  of  alarming  the 
passers-by  or  having  a  crow  to  pluck  with 
the  garde-champetre?  To-day  the  insects  are 
always  there,  within  reach  of  his  eyes  and 
his  hand.  He  has  hardly  to  look  for  them 
nowadays.  They  come  to  him,  into  his  gar- 
den and  even  into  his  house. 

All  Fabre's  preferences  are  for  the  insect, 

1  Souvenirs,  n.,  pp.  1-8.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  i., 
"The  Harmas." 

2l6 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

but  he  loves  the  other  creatures  also  and 
gladly  gives  them  the  rights  of  citizenship 
in  the  harmas.  He  has  a  peculiar  sympathy 
for  those  that  are  misunderstood  and  scorned 
by  the  vulgar. 

In  front  of  the  house  is  a  large  pond,  fed  by 
the  aqueduct  that  supplies  the  village  pumps  with 
water.  Here,  from  half  a  mile  and  more  around, 
come  the  Frogs  and  Toads  in  the  lovers'  season. 
In  May,  as  soon  as  it  is  dark,  the  pond  becomes 
a  deafening  orchestra:  it  is  impossible  to  talk  at 
table,  impossible  to  sleep. 

We  have  had  a  glimpse  of  the  natural 
wealth  of  the  harmas,  but  we  have  no  idea  as 
yet  of  some  of  the  artificial  improvements 
which  the  inventive  industry  of  the  naturalist 
has  introduced. 

I  have  [writes  Fabre]  wished  for  a  few  things 
in  my  life,  none  of  them  capable  of  interfering 
with  the  common  weal.  I  have  longed  to  possess 
a  pond,  screened  from  the  indiscretion  of  the 
passers-by,  close  to  my  house,  with  clumps  of  rushes 
and  patches  of  duckweed.  There,  in  my  leisure 
hours,  in  the  shade  of  a  willow,  I  should  have 
meditated  upon  aquatic  life,  a  primitive  life,  easier 
than  our  own,  simpler  in  its  affections  and  its 
brutalities.  I  should  have  studied  the  eggs  of  the 
Planorbis,  a  glairy  nebula  wherein  foci  of  life  are 
217 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

condensed  even  as  suns  are  condensed  in  the  nebulae 
of  the  heavens.  I  should  have  admired  the  nascent 
creature  that  turns,  slowly  turns,  in  the  orb  of 
its  egg  and  describes  a  volute,  the  draft  perhaps 
of  the  future  shell.  No  planet  circles  round  its 
centre  of  attraction  with  greater  geometrical  ac- 
curacy. 

I  should  have  brought  back  a  few  ideas  from 
my  frequent  visits  to  the  pond.  Fate  decided  other- 
wise: I  was  not  to  have  my  sheet  of  water.  I  have 
tried  the  artificial  pond,  between  four  panes  of 
glass.  A  poor  makeshift! 

A  louis  has  been  overlooked  in  a  corner  of  a 
drawer.  I  can  spend  it  without  seriously  jeopar- 
dising the  domestic  balance.  The  blacksmith  makes 
me  the  framework  of  a  cage  out  of  a  few  iron 
rods.  The  joiner,  who  is  also  a  glazier  on  occa- 
sion— for,  in  my  village,  you  have  to  be  a  Jack- 
of-all  trades  if  you  would  make  both  ends  meet — 
sets  the  framework  on  a  wooden  base  and  sup- 
plies it  with  a  movable  board  as  a  lid ;  he  fixes 
thick  panes  of  glass  in  the  four  sides.  Behold  the 
apparatus,  complete,  with  a  bottom  of  tarred  sheet- 
iron  and  a  tap  to  let  the  water  out.  Many  an 
inquisitive  caller  has  wondered  what  use  I  intend 
to  make  of  my  little  glass  trough.  The  thing 
creates  a  certain  stir.  Some  insist  that  it  is  meant 
to  hold  my  supplies  of  oil  and  to  take  the  place 
of  the  receptacle  in  general  use  in  our  parts,  the 
urn  dug  out  of  a  block  of  stone.  What  would 
those  utilitarians  have  thought  of  my  crazy  mind, 
had  they  known  that  my  costly  gear  would  merely 
2l8 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

serve  to  let  me  watch  some  wretched  animals  kick- 
ing about  in   the  water?1 

The  delight  of  my  earliest  childhood,  the  pond, 
is  still  a  spectacle  of  which  my  old  age  can  never 
tire. 

But  even  with  all  the  visions  which  it 
evokes,  how  far  inferior  is  the  "  pond  "  of 
Serignan  to  the  pond  of  Saint-Leons,  "  the 
pond  with  the  little  ducks  on  it,  so  rich  in 
illusions !  Such  a  pond  is  not  met  with  twice 
in  a  lifetime.  One  needs  to  be  equipped  with 
one's  first  pair  of  breeches  and  one's  earliest 
ideas  in  order  to  have  such  luck!  "  2 

In  spring,  with  the  hawthorn  in  flower  and  the 
Crickets  at  their  concerts,  a  second  wish  often  came 
to  me.  Beside  the  road  I  light  upon  a  dead  Mole, 
a  Snake  killed  with  a  stone,  victims  both  of  human 
folly.  The  two  corpses,  already  decomposing,  have 
begun  to  smell.  Whoso  approaches  with  eyes  that 
do  not  see  turns  away  his  head  and  passes  on. 
The  observer  stops  and  lifts  the  remains  with  his 
foot ;  he  looks.  A  world  is  swarming  underneath ; 
life  is  eagerly  consuming  the  dead.  Let  us  replace 
matters  as  they  were  and  leave  death's  artisans  to 
their  task.  They  are  engaged  in  a  most  deserv- 
ing work. 

1  Souvenirs,  vii.,  pp.  270-273.    The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
vii.,  "The  Pond." 

2  Ibid.,  vii.,  260-270. 

219 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

To  know  the  habits  of  those  creatures  charged 
with  the  disappearance  of  corpses,  to  see  them  busy 
at  their  work  of  disintegration,  to  follow  in  detail 
the  process  of  transmutation  that  makes  the  ruins  of 
what  has  lived  return  apace  into  life's  treasure- 
house:  these  are  things  that  long  haunted  my  mind. 
I  regretfully  left  the  Mole  lying  in  the  dust  of 
the  road.  I  had  to  go,  after  a  glance  at  the  corpse 
and  its  harvesters.  It  was  not  the  place  for  philos- 
ophising over  a  stench.  What  would  people  say 
who  passed  and  saw  me! 

I  am  now  in  a  position  to  realise  my  second  wish. 
I  have  space,  air,  and  quiet  in  the  solitude  of  the 
harmas.  None  will  come  here  to  trouble  me,  to 
smile  or  to  be  shocked  at  my  investigations.  So 
far,  so  good;  but  observe  the  irony  of  things:  now 
that  I  am  rid  of  passers-by,  I  have  to  fear  my 
cats,  those  assiduous  prowlers,  who,  finding  my 
preparations,  will  not  fail  to  spoil  and  scatter  them. 
In  anticipation  of  their  misdeeds,  I  establish  work- 
shops in  mid-air,  whither  none  but  genuine  corrup- 
tion-agents can  come,  flying  on  their  wings.  At 
different  points  in  the  enclosure,  I  plant  reeds,  three 
by  three,  which,  tied  at  their  free  ends,  form  a 
stable  tripod.  From  each  of  these  supports  I  hang, 
at  a  man's  height,  an  earthenware  pan  filled  with 
fine  sand  and  pierced  at  the  bottom  with  a  hole 
to  allow  the  water  to  escape,  if  it  should  rain.  I 
garnish  my  apparatus  with  dead  bodies.  The  Snake, 
the  Lizard,  the  Toad  receive  the  preference,  be- 
cause of  their  bare  skins,  which  enable  me  better 
to  follow  the  first  attack  and  the  work  of  the  in- 
220 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

vaders.  I  ring  the  changes  with  furred  and  feath- 
ered beasts.  A  few  children  of  the  neighbourhood, 
allured  by  pennies,  are  my  regular  purveyors. 
Throughout  the  good  season  they  come  running 
triumphantly  to  my  door,  with  a  Snake\at  the  end 
of  a  stick,  or  a  Lizard  in  a  cabbage-leaf.  They 
bring  me  the  Rat  caught  in  a  trap,  the  Chicken 
dead  of  the  pip,  the  Mole  slain  by  the  gardener, 
the  Kitten  killed  by  accident,  the  Rabbit  poisoned 
by  some  weed.  The  business  proceeds  to  the  mu- 
tual satisfaction  of  sellers  and  buyer.  No  such 
trade  had  ever  been  known  before  in  the  village, 
nor  ever  will  be  again.1 

Yet  despite  all  his  inventions  Fabre  had 
no  illusion  as  to  their  value.  He  well  knew 
that  art  cannot  replace  nature  who  said, 
speaking  of  his  glass-walled  "  pond,"  the 
aquarium  of  which  he  seemed  so  proud:  "  A 
poor  makeshift,  after  all!  "  You  may  think 
that  he  is  reverting  to  his  childhood  and  that 
he  will  tell  us  again  of  the  pond  with  its 
ducklings.  But  he  tells  us  something  far 
better : 

"  Not  all  our  laboratory  aquaria  are  worth 
the  print  left  in  the  clay  by  the  shoe  of  a 
mule,  when  a  shower  has  filled  the  humble 

1  Souvenirs,  vm.,  278-280,  255-295.  The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap,  v.,  "The  Greenbottles  "  ;  The  Mason-wasps,  chap. 
ix.,  "  Insect  Geometry "  ;  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  ix., 
"  The  Grey  Flesh-Flies." 

221 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

basin  and  life  has  peopled  it  with  her  mar- 
vels." J 

Who  but  he  could  have  found  such  a  pearl 
in  this  clay? 

1  Souvenirs,  VIH.,  p.  228.    The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  ix., 
"The  Greenbottles." 


222 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  HERMIT  OF  SERIGNAN    (CONTINUED) 

VI7HILE  the  domain  of  the  landowner 
**  and  manufacturer  ended  at  the  walls 
of  his  field  of  pebbles  and  botanical  garden, 
that  of  the  entomologist  extended  far  be- 
yond them,  as  far  as  his  eyes  could  see  and 
his  steps  lead  him. 

For  this  reason  a  panoramic  view  of  the 
surrounding  country  is  desirable. 

With  its  peaceful  plains,  its  gracious  hills, 
overgrown  with  strawberry-tree  and  ilex,  and 
the  sublime  mountain  of  Provence  rising  upon 
the  horizon,  with  its  varied  outlines  and  its 
sun-illumined  flanks,  the  Serignan  landscape 
gently  forces  itself  upon  the  spectator's  at- 
tention. And  if  the  spirit  moved  him,  Fabre 
had  only  to  raise  his  head  from  his  appa- 
ratus to  find  all  about  him  something  to 
soothe  the  eye  and  refresh  the  mind. 

But  however  keen  his  feeling  for  the  beau- 
ties of  Nature,  it  is  not  so  much  as  artist  or 
dilettante  but  as  the  insect  historiographer 
that  he  appreciates  the  value  of  the  land- 
223 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

scape,  and  the  wealth  of  the  plains  and  hills 
outspread  before  him. 

From  this  point  of  view  the  whole  sur- 
roundings of  his  hermitage  seem  as  though 
created  to  continue  and  complete  the  harmas, 
and  the  scientific  pleasures  which  this  affords 
him. 

The  Gymnopleuri  abound  in  the  pebbly  plains  of 
the  neighbourhood,  where  the  sheep  pass  amid  the 
lavender  and  thyme;  and,  should  we  wish  to  vary 
the  scene  of  observation,  the  mountain  *  is  but  a  few 
hundred  steps  away,  with  its  tangle  of  arbutus, 
rock-roses,  and  arborescent  heather;  with  its  sandy 
spaces  dear  to  the  Bembeces;  with  its  marly  slopes 
exploited  by  different  Wasps  and  Bees. 

We  have  already  made  mention  of  the 
Aygues,  and  the  time  has  come  to  pay  it  a 
formal  visit,  as  one  of  the  favourite  haunts 
of  the  Serignan  hermit: 

The  geographers  define  the  Aygues  as  a  water- 
course. As  an  eye-witness  I  should  call  it  rather 
a  stream  of  flat  pebbles.  Understand  me:  I  do  not 
mean  that  the  dry  pebbles  flow  of  their  own  accord ; 
the  feeble  incline  would  not  permit  of  such  an 
avalanche.  But  let  it  rain:  then  they  will  flow. 
Then,  from  my  home,  which  is  more  than  a  mile 
distant,  I  hear  the  uproar  of  the  clashing  pebbles. 

1  Mont  Ventoux,  an  outlying  summit  of  the  Alps,  6270 
feet  high.     Cf.  Insect  Life,  chap.  xiii. — A.  T.  DE  M. 
224 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

During  the  greater  part  of  the  year  the  Aygues 
is  a  vast  sheet  of  flat  white  stones;  of  the  torrent 
only  the  bed  is  left,  a  furrow  of  enormous  width, 
comparable  to  that  of  its  mighty  neighbour,  the 
Rhone.  When  persistent  rains  fall,  when  the  snows 
melt  on  the  slopes  of  the  Alps,  the  dry  furrow 
fills  for  a  few  days,  complaining,  overflowing  to 
a  great  distance,  and  displacing,  amid  the  uproar, 
its  pebbly  banks.  Return  a  week  later:  the  din 
of  the  flood  is  succeeded  by  silence.  The  terrible 
waters  have  disappeared,  leaving  on  the  banks,  as 
a  trace  of  their  brief  passage,  some  wretched  muddy 
puddles  quickly  drunk  up  by  the  sun. 

These  sudden  floods  bring  a  thousand  living 
gleanings,  swept  off  the  flanks  of  the  mountains. 
The  dry  bed  of  the  Aygues  is  a  most  curious  botani- 
cal garden.  You  may  find  there  numbers  of  vege- 
table species  swept  down  from  the  higher  regions, 
some  temporary,  dying  without  offspring  in  a  sea- 
son, others  permanent,  adapting  themselves  to  the 
new  climate.  They  come  from  far  away  from 
a  great  height,  these  exiles;  to  pluck  certain  of 
them  in  their  actual  home  you  would  have  to 
climb  Ventoux,  passing  the  girdle  of  beeches  and 
reaching  the  height  at  which  woody  vegetation 
ceases. 

An  insect  which  is  sometimes  found  by  chance 
in  the  osier-beds  of  the  Aygues,  and  is  by  itself 
worth  the  journey,  is  the  Apoderus  of  the  hazel- 
tree. 

It  tells  us  also  many  things,  this  little  red 
Weevil  "  from  the  heights  rich  in  hazel-bushes " 
225 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

and  carried  by  the  storm  into  the  alder-thickets  of 
the  Aygues. 

It  reminds  us,  too,  of  that  other  emigrant, 
whose  intimate  acquaintance  it  has  become. 

And  we  are  touched  by  the  analogy  between 
its  fate  and  his  own.  Fabre  too  was  a  child  of 
the  heights  rich  in  hazel-bushes.1  He  too  had 
to  leave  the  place  of  his  birth,  carried  away  by 
the  storm  that  tore  him  from  the  bosom  of  his 
native  mountains  to  bear  him  into  the  plains  of 
Provence.  He  too  made  the  voyage  with  very  poor 
and  very  fragile  equipment.  For  a  long  time, 
terribly  tossed  by  the  waves,  he  was  more  than 
once  sorely  bruised,  but  was  yet  not  broken  upon 
the  stones  of  the  torrent;  more  than  once  he  was 
whirled  suddenly  round,  but  he  nevertheless  con- 
tinued to  pursue  his  aim,  and  finally  he  pierced  the 
husk  and  emerged  from  the  shell,  to  give  his  activ- 
ity free  scope,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  free  him- 
self and  establish  his  lot  in  a  favourable  environ- 
ment. 

However,  contrary  to  what  occurs  in  the  case 
of  the  Apoderus,  the  conditions  of  his  life  seem 

1  Fabre  lived  the  first  years  of  his  life  (cf.  chap,  i.)  on 
the  mountains  of  Lavaysse,  which  are  almost  of  the  birth 
and  bifurcation  of  the  two  ranges  of  the  Levezon  and 
the  Palanger.  In  the  language  of  his  country  La  Vaysse, 
pronounced  Lo  Baisso,  means  "  the  hazel-bush." 

An  alien  zoology  too  is  represented  in  the  osier-beds 
of  the  Aygues,  whose  peace  is  never  disturbed  save  in 
freshets  of  exceptional  duration.  The  wild  spates  of  the 
Aygues  bring  into  our  countryside  and  strand  in  the 
osier-thickets  the  largest  of  our  Snails,  the  glory  of  Bur- 
gundy, Helix  pramatias. 

226 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

to  have  been  modified  as  profoundly  as  those  of 
his  geographical  habitat;  they  became  perhaps  even 
further  removed  from  those  of  his  origin  and  his 
forebears.  We  know  what  his  paternal  ancestors 
were,  and  that  they  had  no  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  insect  world.  His  mother's  people  were 
equally  regardless  of  and  devoid  of  affection  for 
the  little  creatures  that  so  absorbed  and  delighted 
him.1 

I  did  not  know  my  maternal  grandfather.  This 
venerable  ancestor  was,  I  have  been  told,  a  process- 
server  in  one  of  the  poorest  parishes  of  the 
Rouergue.2  He  used  to  engross  on  stamped  paper 
in  a  primitive  spelling.  With  his  well-filled  pen- 
case  and  ink-horn,  he  went  drawing  out  deeds  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  from  one  insolvent  wretch  to 
another  more  insolvent  still.  Amid  his  atmosphere 
of  pettifoggery,  this  rudimentary  scholar,  waging 
battle  on  life's  acerbities,  certainly  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  insect;  at  most,  if  he  met  it,  he  would 
crush  it  under  foot.  The  unknown  animal,  sus- 
pected of  evil-doing,  deserved  no  further  inquiry. 
Grandmother,  on  her  side,  apart  from  her  house- 
keeping and  her  beads,  knew  still  less  about  any- 
thing. She  looked  on  the  alphabet  as  a  set  of 
hieroglyphics  only  fit  to  spoil  your  sight  for  noth- 
ing, unless  you  were  scribbling  on  paper  bearing 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,   pp.  26-37,  4-2-     The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap,  v.,  "Heredity." 

2  A  district  of  the  province  of  Guienne,  having  Rodez 
for    its    capital.      The    author's    maternal    grandfather, 
Salgues  by  name,  was  the  huissier,  or,  as  we  should  say, 
sheriff's  officer,  of  Saint-Leons. — A.  T.  DE  M. 

227 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  government  stamp.  Who  in  the  world,  in  her 
day  among  the  small  folk,  dreamt  of  knowing  how 
to  read  and  write?  That  luxury  was  reserved  for 
the  attorney,  who  himself  made  but  a  sparing  use 
of  it.  The  insect,  I  need  hardly  say,  was  the  least 
of  her  cares.  If  sometimes,  when  rinsing  her  salad 
at  the  tap,  she  found  a  Caterpillar  on  the  lettuce- 
leaves,  with  a  start  of  fright  she  would  fling  the 
loathsome  thing  away,  thus  cutting  short  relations 
reputed  dangerous.  In  brief,  to  both  my  maternal 
grandparents  the  insect  was  a  creature  of  no  in- 
terest whatever  and  almost  always  a  repulsive  ob- 
ject, which  one  dared  not  touch  with  the  tip  of 
one's  finger.  Beyond  a  doubt,  my  taste  for  ani- 
mals was  not  derived  from  them.  Nor  from  either 
of  my  own  parents.  My  mother,  who  was  quite 
illiterate,  having  known  no  teacher  but  the  bitter 
experience  of  a  harassed  life,  was  the  exact  oppo- 
site of  what  my  tastes  required  for  their  develop- 
ment. My  peculiarity  must  seek  its  origin  else- 
where; that  I  will  swear. 

Nor  shall  I  find  it  in  my  father.  The  excel- 
lent man,  who  was  hard-working  and  sturdily-built 
like  grandad,  had  been  to  school  as  a  child.  He 
knew  how  to  write,  though  he  took  the  greatest 
liberties  with  spelling;  he  knew  how  to  read  and 
understood  what  he  read,  provided  the  reading 
presented  no  more  serious  literary  difficulties  than 
occurred  in  the  stories  in  the  almanack.  He  was 
the  first  of  his  line  to  allow  himself  to  be  tempted 
by  the  town,  and  he  lived  to  regret  it.  Badly  off, 
having  but  little  outlet  for  his  industry,  making 
228 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

God  knows  what  shifts  to  pick  up  a  livelihood,1 
he  went  through  all  the  disappointments  of  the 
countryman  turned  townsman.  Persecuted  by  bad 
luck,  borne  down  by  the  burden  for  all  his  energy 
and  good  will,  he  was  far  indeed  from  starting  me 
in  entomology.  He  had  other  cares,  cares  more 
direct  and  more  serious.  A  good  cuff  or  two  when 
he  saw  me  pinning  an  insect  to  a  cork  was  all  the 
encouragement  that  I  received  from  him.  Perhaps 
he  was  right. 

The  conclusion  is  positive:  there  is  nothing  in 
heredity  to  explain  my  taste  for  observation.  You 
may  say  that  I  do  not  go  far  enough  back.  Well, 
what  should  I  find  beyond  the  grandparents  where 
my  facts  come  to  a  stop?  I  know,  partly.  I 
should  find  even  more  uncultured  ancestors:  sons 
of  the  soil,  ploughmen,  sowers  of  rye,  neat-herds; 
one  and  all,  by  the  very  force  of  things,  of  not 
the  least  account  in  the  nice  matters  of  obser- 
vation.2 

Between  the  parents  and  the  son,  what  a 
difference,  what  a  change  of  life  and  of  des- 
tiny! Quantum  mutatus  ab  illisf  This,  no 
doubt,  is  the  first  thing  to  strike  one;  and 
here,  too,  we  have  one  of  the  most  salient 
features  of  the  superiority  of  the  human  in- 
telligence; this  almost  infinite  possibility  of 

1  The  author's  father  kept  a  cafe   at  Pierrelatte   and 
other  small  towns  in  the  south  of  France. — A.  T.  DE  M. 

2  Souvenirs,  vi.,  pp.  26-37,  42.     The  Life  of  the  Fly, 
chap,   v.,  "  Heredity." 

229 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

transformation  and  progress,  which  forms 
such  a  striking  contrast  with  the  rigid  immu- 
tability of  instinct  which  is  barely  suscep- 
tible of  the  slightest  variation. 

But  for  all  this  Fabre  still  bears  the  stamp 
of  the  soil  and  of  his  ancestry,  and  I  am 
certain  that  the  pages  of  the  banks  of  the 
Viaur,  were  they  to  descend  to  the  banks  of 
the  Aygues  to  visit  the  hermit  of  Serignan, 
would  recognise  by  more  than  one  charac- 
teristic the  child  of  their  native  soil  and  their 
own  race.  Under  his  wide  felt  hat,  "  in  his 
linen  jacket  "  1  and  his  heavy  shoes,  with  a 
face  like  theirs  in  its  simplicity  and  good  na- 
ture, he  would  see  almost  one  of  them- 
selves. And  if,  after  entering  his  home,  they 
were  to  follow  him  into  the  enclosure,  among 
his  crops  and  his  appliances,  if  they  were  to 
see  him  valiantly  digging  up  the  soil  of  the 
harmas  in  search  of  fresh  burrows  of  the 
Scarabaei,  or  assembling  a  few  thick  planks 
to  contrive  some  new  entomological  appa- 
ratus, or  simply  beating  the  brushwood  over 
his  inverted  umbrella  in  search  of  insects, 
they  would  certainly  be  tempted  to  join  in 
and  lend  him  a  hand  as  though  dealing  with 
a  fellow-labourer. 

Others  may  be  surprised  to  find  in  the 

1  Fabre  had  a  sort  of  natural  horror  of  luxury. 
230 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

scholar  and  scientist  the  features  and  the 
manners  of  a  peasant.  Let  us  rather  rejoice 
to  see  that  our  eminent  fellow-countryman 
has  never  renounced  the  simplicity  of  his 
origins,  and  take  pleasure  in  noting  how 
closely  the  hermit  of  Serignan  resembles  the 
urchin  of  Malaval. 

We  have  attempted  to  show  the  hermit 
of  Serignan  in  his  own  setting,  as  he  really 
is.  It  remains  for  us  to  see  how  he  glorifies 
his  solitude  and  ennobles  his  rustic  life;  how 
the  poor,  simple  peasant  whom  he  has  al- 
ways been  has  done  more  for  science  than 
the  most  elegantly  dressed  and  profusely  dec- 
orated savants. 


231 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  HERMIT  OF  SERIGNAN    (CONTINUED) 

OH,  if  you  could  now  observe  at  your  ease,  in  the 
quiet  of  your  study,  with  nothing  to  distract 
your  mind  from  your  subject,  far  from  the  profane 
wayfarer  who,  seeing  you  so  busily  occupied  at  a  spot 
where  he  sees  nothing,  will  stop,  overwhelm  you 
with  queries,  take  you  for  some  water-diviner,  or 
— a  graver  suspicion  this — regard  you  as  some  ques- 
tionable character  searching  for  buried  treasure  and 
discovering  by  means  of  incantations  where  the  old 
pots  full  of  coin  lie  hidden!  Should  you  still  wear 
a  Christian  aspect  in  his  eyes,  he  will  approach 
you,  look  to  see  what  you  are  looking  at,  and  smile 
in  a  manner  that  leaves  no  doubt  as  to  his  poor 
opinion  of  people  who  spend  their  time  in  watch- 
ing Flies.  You  will  be  lucky  indeed  if  the  trouble- 
some visitor,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  walks 
off  at  last  without  disturbing  things  and  without 
repeating  in  his  innocence  the  disaster  brought  about 
by  my  two  conscripts'  boots. 

Should  your  inexplicable  doings  not  puzzle  the 
passer-by,  they  will  be  sure  to  puzzle  the  village 
keeper,  that  uncompromising  representative  of  the 
law  in  the  ploughed  acres.  He  has  long  had  his 
eye  on  you.  He  has  so  often  seen  you  wandering 
232 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

about,  like  a  lost  soul,  for  no  appreciable  reason; 
he  has  so  often  caught  you  rooting  in  the  ground, 
or,  with  infinite  precautions,  knocking  down  some 
strip  of  wall  in  a  sunken  road,  that  in  the  end 
he  has  come  to  look  upon  you  with  dark  suspicion. 
You  are  nothing  to  him  but  a  gipsy,  a  tramp, 
poultry-thief,  a  shady  person,  or,  at  the  best,  a  mad- 
man. Should  you  be  carrying  your  botanising-case, 
it  will  represent  to  him  the  poacher's  ferret-cage; 
and  you  would  never  get  it  out  of  his  head  that, 
regardless  of  the  game-laws  and  the  rights  of  land- 
lords, you  are  clearing  the  neighbouring  warrens  of 
their  rabbits.  Take  care.  However  thirsty  you 
may  be,  do  not  lay  a  finger  on  the  nearest  bunch 
of  grapes:  the  man  with  the  municipal  badge  will 
be  there,  delighted  to  have  a  case  at  last  and  so 
to  receive  an  explanation  of  your  highly  perplex- 
ing behaviour. 

I  have  never,  I  can  safely  say,  committed  any 
such  misdemeanour;  and  yet,  one  day,  lying  on  the 
sand,  absorbed  in  the  details  of  a  Bembex's  house- 
hold, I  suddenly  heard  beside  me: 

"  In  the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you!  You 
come  along  with  me!" 

It  was  the  keeper  of  Les  Angles,  who,  after 
vainly  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  catch  me  at 
fault  and  being  daily  more  anxious  for  an  answer 
to  the  riddle  that  was  worrying  him,  at  last  re- 
solved upon  the  brutal  expedient  of  a  summons. 
I  had  to  explain  things.  The  poor  man  seemed 
anything  but  convinced: 

"Pooh!"  he  said.  "Pooh!  You  will  never 
233 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

make  me  believe  that  you  come  here  and  roast  in 
the  sun  just  to  watch  Flies.  I  shall  keep  an  eye 
on  you,  mark  you!  And,  the  first  time  I  .  .  .  ! 
However,  that'll  do  for  the  present." 1 

We  must  recall  these  adventures  and  tribu- 
lations of  his  early  days,  and  others  of  a 
like  kind  which  we  have  already  recorded, 
before  we  can  understand  the  ease  and  the 
delight  experienced  by  Fabre  when  he  was 
able  to  take  refuge  within  the  walls  of  his 
hermitage.  There,  at  least,  no  one  would 
upset  his  plans,  or  distract  him  from  his  re- 
searches and  observations.  He  could  station 
himself  where  he  pleased;  he  had  room  to 
turn  round.  He  had  leisure  to  await  the  op- 
portunity and  seize  upon  it  when  it  occurred. 
He  had  nothing  to  think  of  now  but  himself 
and  his  insects,  and  the  latter  always  ended 
by  yielding  to  him  and  complying  with  all 
his  wishes.  They  surrendered  themselves  to 
him  as  he  to  them.  The  days  were  over 
when  he  had  to  divide  himself,  as  it  were; 
when  they  kept  him  on  the  rack,  maliciously 
waiting  to  make  overtures  or  intimate  dis- 
closures to  him  just  as  he  had  to  leave  them, 
just  as  the  class-bell  rang  or  his  holiday  was 
over.  Now  there  was  nothing  like  that.  He 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  134-136.     The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap, 
viii.,  "  The   Languedocian   Sphex." 

234 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

was  theirs  from  morning  to  night,  from  night 
to  morning.  He  was  always  watching,  al- 
ways listening;  his  mind  was  always  on  the 
alert  where  they  were  concerned.  And  the 
veils  were  lifted,  secrets  were  revealed,  confi- 
dences followed  confidences,  and  a  light  was 
shed  upon  points  which  had  so  far  remained 
impenetrable  for  a  space  of  twenty  or  thirty 
years. 

In  the  laboratory  of  the  harmas  the  day 
begins  early;  as  soon  as  nature  awakens  with 
the  first  rays  of  sunlight,  directly  our  hermit 
hears  the  call  of  his  vigilant  life-companions. 
This  appeal  is  sometimes  very  early,  when, 
for  example,  he  pushes  complaisance  to  the 
length  of  permitting  the  swallow  to  nest  in 
his  study. 

The  room  is  closed  for  the  night.  The  father 
lies  outside;  the  mother  does  the  same  when  the 
fledglings  are  a  certain  size.  Then,  from  the  earli- 
est dawn,  they  are  at  the  windows,  greatly  troubled 
by  the  glass  barricade.  In  order  to  open  the  win- 
dow to  the  afflicted  parents,  I  have  to  rise  hur- 
riedly with  my  eyelids  still  heavy  with  sleep. 

But  here  is  something  to  repay  the  valiant 
naturalist  for  his  early  sacrifice:  the  delights 
of  "  prayer  in  the  chapel  of  the  lilacs." 

My  hermitage  contains  an  alley  of  lilacs,  long 
and  wide.  When  May  is  here,  when  the  two 

235 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

rows  of  bushes,  yielding  beneath  the  burden  of  the 
heads  of  blossom,  bow  themselves,  forming  pointed 
arches,  this  walk  becomes  a  chapel,  in  which  the 
most  beautiful  festival  of  the  year  is  celebrated  in 
the  enchanting  morning  sunlight;  a  quiet  festival, 
without  flags  flapping  at  the  windows,  without  the 
burning  of  gunpowder,  without  quarrels  after  drink- 
ing; the  festival  of  the  simple,  disturbed  neither 
by  the  raucous  brass  band  of  the  dancers,  nor  by 
the  shouts  of  the  crowd.  .  .  .  Vulgar  delights  of 
maroons  and  libations,  how  far  removed  are  you 
from  this  solemnity! 

I  am  one  of  the  faithful  in  the  chapel  of  the 
lilacs.  My  prayer  is  not  such  as  can  be  translated 
by  words;  it  is  an  intimate  emotion  that  stirs  in 
me  gently.  Devoutly  I  make  my  stations  from 
one  pillar  of  verdure  to  the  next;  step  by  step 
I  tell  my  observer's  rosary.1 

His  "  prayer  is  an  Oh!  of  admiration,"  ad- 
dressed to  that  creative  Power  who,  in  His 
works,  is  always  the  geometer,  according  to 
Plato's  sublime  saying:  which  is,  that  He 
everywhere  sheds  order,  light,  and  harmony. 


The  contemplation  of  the  living  world  that 
is  stirring  all  about  him  gives  him  yet  fur- 
ther cause  to  marvel  at  the  wisdom  of  Him 
"  who  has  made  the  plans  on  which  life  is 

1  Souvenirs,  p.  319,  viii.,  p.  x. 

2  Ibid.,  p.  294. 

236 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

working."  1  It  is  easy  to  understand  that, 
for  Fabre,  the  harmas  assumed  the  colours 
and  the  charms  of  Eden,  and  that  his  soli- 
tary life  therein  was  like  a  perpetual  ecstasy. 
For  the  rest,  the  scene  changes  as  well  as 
the  protagonists.  After  the  harmas  with  its 
breeding-cages  and  its  customary  inhabitants, 
the  Serignan  country-side  with  its  fortuitous 
encounters.  When  the  weather  is  propitious 
the  whole  household  sets  out  in  a  party.  But 
the  heat  is  torrid  and  the  time  of  day  un- 
suitable for  walking.  The  naturalist  sets  out 
none  the  less.  Bull  alone  dares  to  brave  with 
his  master  the  blazing  heat  of  the  sun.  But 
even  he  will  not  hold  out  to  the  end!  The 
goal  is  reached;  but  the  most  difficult  thing 
is  not  to  walk  the  distance  to  the  post  of  ob- 
servation; it  is  to  settle  down  and  remain 
there,  under  the  scorching  sun,  waiting  for 
an  opportunity  that  is  often  slow  to  occur. 

Ah,  how  long  the  hours  seem,  spent  motionless, 
under  a  burning  sun,  at  the  foot  of  a  declivity 
which  sends  the  heat  of  an  oven  beating  down 
upon  you!  Bull,  my  inseparable  companion,  has 
retired  some  distance  into  the  shade,  under  a  clump 
of  evergreen  oaks.  He  has  found  a  layer  of  sand 
whose  depths  still  retain  some  traces  of  the  last 
shower.  He  digs  himself  a  bed;  and  in  the  cool 

1  Souvenirs,  VI.,  p.  295. 

2.37 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

furrow  the  sybarite  stretches  himself  flat  upon  his 
belly.  Lolling  his  tongue  and  thrashing  the  boughs 
with  his  tail,  he  keeps  his  soft,  deep  gaze  fixed  upon 
me: 

"  What  are  you  doing  over  there,  you  booby, 
baking  in  the  heat?  Come  here,  under  the  fol- 
iage; see  how  comfortable  I  am! 

That  is  what  I  seem  to  read  in  my  compan- 
ion's eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  Dog,  my  friend,"  I  should  answer, 
if  you  could  only  understand,  "  man  is  tormented 
by  a  desire  for  knowledge,  whereas  your  torments 
are  confined  to  a  desire  for  bones  and,  from  time 
to  time,  a  desire  for  your  sweetheart!  This, 
notwithstanding  our  devoted  friendship,  creates  a 
certain  difference  between  us,  even  though  people 
nowadays  say  that  we  are  more  or  less  related, 
almost  cousins.  I  feel  the  need  to  know  things 
and  am  content  to  bake  in  the  heat;  you  feel  no 
such  need  and  retire  into  the  cool  shade." 

Yes,  the  hours  drag  when  you  lie  waiting  for 
an  insect  that  does  not  come.1 


Yet  from  his  expeditions  into  the  country- 
side, he  almost  always  brings  back  some  new 
pensioner  who  serves  to  enrich  his  collection 
of  intimates  admitted  to  the  familiarities  of 
cohabitation.  For  not  only  the  harmas  but 

1  Souvenirs,  n.,  pp.  80,  81,  90,  91.  The  Mason  Wasps, 
chap,  ii.,  "  The  Odyneri." 

238 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

his  work-room  becomes,  by  such  chance 
means,  an  entomological  museum,  in  which 
Flies,  Scorpions,  Caterpillars,  Spiders,  and 
I  know  not  what  else  live  side  by  side  and 
in  succession. 

And  when  their  turn  is  over,  when  the 
first  comers  have  to  make  room  for  new  ar- 
rivals, the  master  parts  from  his  children 
with  regret,  dismissing  them  with  the  most 
kindly  speeches,  embellished  by  the  most  salu- 
tary advice.  Here,  for  example,  is  the  little 
speech  which  he  makes  to  the  Sphex: 

You  pretty  Sphex-wasps  hatched  before  my  eyes, 
brought  up  by  my  hand,  ration  by  ration,  on  a  bed 
of  sand  in  an  old  quill-box;  you  whose  transforma- 
tions I  have  followed  step  by  step,  starting  up  from 
my  sleep  in  alarm  lest  I  should  have  missed  the 
moment  when  the  nymph  is  bursting  its  swaddling- 
bands  or  the  wing  leaving  its  case;  you  who  have 
taught  me  so  much  and  learned  nothing  your- 
selves: O  my  pretty  Sphex-wasps,  fly  away  without 
fear  of  my  tubes,  my  boxes,  my  bottles,  or  any 
of  my  receptacles,  through  this  warm  sunlight  be- 
loved of  the  Cicadae;  go,  but  beware  of  the  Pray- 
ing Mantis,  who  is  plotting  your  ruin  on  the  flow- 
ering heads  of  the  thistles,  and  mind  the  Lizard, 
who  is  lying  in  wait  for  you  on  the  sunny  slopes; 
go  in  peace,  dig  your  burrows,  stab  your  Crickets 
scientifically  and  continue  your  kind,  to  procure 

239 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

one  day  for  others  what  you  have  given  me:  the 
few  moments  of  happiness  in  my  life ! 1 

One  of  the  great  joys  of  the  Serignan  her- 
mit is,  after  supper,  to  isolate  himself  in  the 
restful  quietude  of  the  harmas,  and  there  to 
lend  an  attentive  ear  to  the  least  vibrations 
of  sound  from  that  little  living  world  which 
he  can  no  longer  see  but  can  still  hear.  Noth- 
ing will  succeed  in  distracting  him  from  this 
entomological  concert,  which  is  one  of  his 
delights.  It  makes  him  forget  even  the  re- 
joicings of  the  national  festival  which  is  be- 
ing celebrated  close  at  hand,  and  the  splen- 
dours of  the  starry  sky  that  glitters  above 
his  head. 

This  evening  in  the  village  they  are  celebrat- 
ing the  National  Festival.2  While  the  little  boys 
and  girls  are  hopping  around  a  bonfire  whose 
gleams  are  reflected  upon  the  church-steeple,  while 
the  drum  is  banged  to  mark  the  ascent  of  each 
rocket,  I  am  sitting  alone  in  a  dark  corner,  in  the 
comparative  coolness  that  prevails  at  nine  o'clock, 
harking  to  the  concert  of  the  festival  of  the  fields, 
the  festival  of  the  harvest,  grander  by  far  than 
that  which,  at  this  moment,  is  being  celebrated 

1  Souvenirs,  1.,  p.  115.      The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  vi., 
"  The  Larva  and  the  Nymph." 

2  The  i4th  of  July,  the  anniversary  of  the  fall  of  the 
Bastille.— A.  T.  DE  M. 

240 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

in  the  village  square  with  gunpowder,  lighted 
torches,  Chinese  lanterns,  and,  above  all,  strong 
drink.  It  has  the  simplicity  of  beauty  and  the 
repose  of  strength. 

It  is  late;  and  the  Cicada?  are  silent.  Glutted 
with  light  and  heat,  they  have  indulged  in  sym- 
phonies all  the  livelong  day.  It  is  now  the  time 
of  the  nocturnal  performers.  Hard  by  the  place 
of  slaughter,  in  the  green  bushes,  a  delicate  ear 
perceives  the  hum  of  the  Grasshoppers.  It  is  the 
sort  of  noise  that  a  spinning-wheel  makes,  a  very 
unobtrusive  sound,  a  vague  rustle  of  dry  mem- 
branes rubbed  together.  Above  this  dull  bass  there 
rises,  at  intervals,  a  hurried,  very  shrill,  almost 
metallic  clicking.  There  you  have  the  air  and 
the  recitative,  interspersed  with  pauses.  The  rest 
is  the  accompaniment. 

Despite  the  assistance  of  a  bass,  it  is  a  poor  con- 
cert, very  poor  indeed,  though  there  are  about 
ten  executants  in  my  immediate  vicinity.  The  tone 
lacks  intensity.  My  old  tympanum  is  not  always 
capable  of  perceiving  these  subtleties  of  sound.  The 
little  that  reaches  me  is  extremely  sweet  and  most 
appropriate  to  the  calm  of  twilight.  Just  a  little 
more  breadth  in  your  bow-stroke,  my  dear  Green 
Grasshopper,  and  your  technique  would  be  better 
than  the  hoarse  Cicada's,  whose  name  and  repu- 
tation you  have  been  made  to  usurp  in  the  coun- 
tries of  the  north. 

Still,  you  will  never  equal  your  neighbour,  the 
little  bell-ringing  Toad,  who  goes  tinkling  all 
around,  at  the  foot  of  the  plane-trees,  while  you 
241 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

click  up  above.  He  is  the  smallest  of  my  batrachian 
folk  and  the  most  venturesome  in  his  expeditions. 

How  often,  at  nightfall,  by  the  last  glimmers 
of  daylight,  have  I  not  come  upon  him  as  I  wan- 
dered through  my  garden,  hunting  for  ideas! 
Something  runs  away,  rolling  over  and  over  in 
front  of  me.  Is  it  a  dead  leaf  blown  along  by 
the  wind?  No,  it  is  the  pretty  little  Toad  dis- 
turbed in  the  midst  of  his  pilgrimage.  He  hur- 
riedly takes  shelter  under  a  stone,  a  clod  of  earth, 
a  tuft  of  grass,  recovers  from  his  excitement  and 
loses  no  time  in  picking  up  his  liquid  note. 

On  this  evening  of  national  merry-making  there 
are  nearly  a  dozen  of  him  tinkling  one  against 
the  other  around  me.  Most  of  them  are  squatting 
among  the  rows  of  flower-pots  that  form  a  sort  of 
lobby  outside  my  house.  Each  has  his  own  note, 
always  the  same,  lower  in  one  case,  higher  in 
another,  a  short,  clear  note,  melodious  and  of  ex- 
quisite purity. 

With  their  slow,  rhythmical  cadence,  they  seem 
to  be  intoning  litanies.  Cluck,  says  one;  click, 
responds  another,  on  a  finer  note;  clock,  adds  a 
third,  the  tenor  of  the  band.  And  this  is  re- 
peated indefinitely,  like  the  bells  of  the  village 
pealing  on  a  holiday:  cluck,  click,  clock!  cluck, 
click,  clock! 

As  a  song  this  litany  has  neither  head  nor  tail 
to  it;  as  a  collection  of  pure  sounds,  it  is  delicious.1 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  pp.  196-203,  246-247.     The  Life  of  the 
Grasshopper,  chap,  xiv.,  "  The   Green  Grasshopper." 
242 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

"  A  little  animated  clay,  capable  of  pleas- 
ure and  pain."  To  the  scrutiny  of  this  mira- 
cle, with  its  infinity  of  forms,  Fabre  devotes 
himself  with  touching  sympathy  and  indefa- 
tigable activity.  He  dedicates  his  day  to  it; 
and  at  night  he  is  still  working.  And  in  this 
work,  which  seems  to  admit  of  no  relaxa- 
tion, he  appears  to  know  nothing  of  fatigue. 
The  love  of  his  task  upholds  him  and  inspires 
,him.  When  night  has  fallen,  the  observer 
has  still  one  resource  left;  he  can  listen  for 
the  rustle  or  the  song  of  the  insect  that  has 
so  far  escaped  him  in  its  coming  and  going. 
We  might,  perhaps,  have  discovered  the  in- 
sect, but  he  discovers  something  very  differ- 
ent. He  makes  a  series  of  observations  by 
the  light  of  a  lantern  in  the  brushwood  or 
before  the  apparatus  in  the  harmas. 


During  the  two  hottest  months,  when  the  dark- 
ness is  profound  and  a  little  coolness  follows  the 
furnace  of  the  day,  it  is  easy  for  me,  with  a  lantern 
in  my  hand,  to  watch  that  magnificent  Spider,  the 
Epeira,  in  the  manufacture  of  her  web.  She  has 
established  herself  at  a  height  convenient  for  obser- 
vation, between  a  row  of  cypress-trees  and  a  thicket 
of  laurels,  at  the  entrance  of  a  path  frequented 
by  nocturnal  moths.  The  situation,  it  seems,  is 
a  good  one,  for  the  Epeira  does  not  change  it  all 
243 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the   season,    although   she    renews  her   net    almost 
every  night. 

When  twilight  is  over,  we  punctually  set  out 
to  pay  her  a  family  visit.  Old  and  young  alike 
are  amazed  by  her  gyrations  in  the  midst  of  her 
quivering  cordage,  and  we  marvel  at  her  impeccable 
geometry  as  her  web  takes  shape.  Gleaming  in  the 
rays  of  the  lantern,  the  fabric  becomes  a  fairy  rose- 
window  which  seems  to  be  woven  of  moon- 
beams. 

What  a  pity  that  we  cannot  wait  for  the 
completion  of  a  task  so  artistically  begun ! 
But  the  hour  is  late,  and  we  have  still  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  Languedocian  Scorpion,  a 
lover  of  darkness  who  has  his  own  hours  for 
going  abroad  and  rarely  shows  himself  save 
at  night.  Accordingly,  it  has  taken  time  to 
secure  the  last  word  of  his  history. 

Rearing  the  Scorpion  in  a  breeding-cage 
tvill  perhaps  give  better  results,  and  in  any 
case  will  facilitate  nocturnal  observations 
which  alone  may  shed  a  little  light  on  the  ob- 
scure habits  of  this  unsociable  hermit. 

Interrogated  by  lantern-light,  the  Arach- 
noid will  indeed  tell  us  more  during  a  few 
seconds  of  stealthy  inspection  than  during 
days  and  weeks  of  diurnal  hunting.  His 
operations  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  such  as 
call  for  closed  doors,  and  wouU  rightly 
244 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

shrink  from  displaying  themselves  in  broad 
daylight. 


I  have  prepared  beforehand  the  great  glass  cage, 
peopled  with  twenty-five  inhabitants,  each  with  his 
tile.  Every  night,  from  the  middle  of  April,  as 
darkness  falls,  there  is  great  animation  in  the  glass 
palace.  By  day  seemingly  to  be  deserted,  it  be- 
comes a  cheerful  scene.  Hardly  is  supper  finished 
when  the  whole  household  hastens  thither.  A  lan- 
tern hung  upon  the  glazed  window  enables  us 
to  follow  what  happens.  This  is  our  distraction 
after  the  bustle  of  the  day;  it  is  like  a  visit  to  the 
theatre.  And  in  this  theatre  the  plays  are  so  inter- 
esting that,  as  soon  as  the  lantern  is  lit,  all  of  us, 
old  and  young,  come  to  take  our  places  in  the 
stalls;  even  down  to  Tom,  the  house-dog.  Indif- 
ferent to  the  affairs  of  the  Scorpions,  like  the  true 
philosopher  that  he  is,  Tom  lies  at  our  feet  and 
sleeps,  but  only  with  one  eye,  the  other  being  always 
open  upon  his  friends,  the  children. 

Close  to  the  glass  panes,  in  the  region  discreetly 
lit  by  the  lantern,  a  numerous  assembly  has  presently 
gathered  together.  Some  come  from  a  distance; 
they  solemnly  emerge  from  the  shadow,  and  then, 
suddenly,  with  a  swift  easy  rush  like  a  slide,  they 
join  the  crowd  in  the  light.  They  investigate  their 
surroundings,  fleeing  precipitately  at  a  touch  as 
though  they  had  burned  each  other.  Others,  hav- 
ing mixed  with  their  comrades  a  little,  suddenly 
make  off  distractedly;  they  recover  themselves  in 

245 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  darkness  and  return.  At  moments  there  is  a 
violent  tumult;  a  confused  mass  of  swarming  legs, 
snapping  pincers  and  coiling,  clashing  tails,  threat- 
ening or  caressing,  one  does  not  quite  know  which. 
All  take  part  in  the  scuffle,  large  and  small ;  you 
would  think  it  a  deadly  battle,  a  general  massacre, 
but  it  is  only  a  crazy  game,  like  a  scrimmage  of 
kittens.  Presently  the  group  disperses;  they  retire 
for  a  little  in  all  directions,  without  any  sign  of 
a  wound,  without  a  sprain.1 

What  do  you  think  of  the  saraband  of 
these  horrible  creatures,  so  full  of  mirth  and 
playfulness?  Certainly  it  has  its  fascinating 
side;  but  it  is  not  equal  to  the  scenes  of  be- 
trothal and  espousal. 

Now  the  fugitives  are  once  more  assembled  be- 
neath the  lantern.  They  pass  to  and  fro,  coming 
and  going,  often  meeting  face  to  face.  The  one 
in  the  greatest  hurry  walks  over  the  other's  back, 
who  allows  him  to  do  so  without  other  protest 
than  a  movement  of  the  rump.  The  time  has  not 
come  for  squabbling;  at  the  most  those  encounter- 
ing exchange  the  equivalent  of  a  punch  on  the 
head:  that  is,  a  thump  of  the  tail. 

We  have  something  better  here  than  entangled 
legs  and  brandished  tails;  these  are  pauses  of  great 
originality.  Face  to  face,  the  claws  drawn  back, 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  94-97,  231,  299-310.     The  Life  and 
Love  of  the  Insect,  chaps,  xvii.,  xviii. 
246 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

two  combatants  proceed  to  stand  on  their  heads: 
that  is,  supporting  themselves  only  on  the  fore  part 
of  the  body,  they  raise  the  hinder  part  in  the  air, 
so  high  that  the  thorax  reveals  the  eight  white 
breathing-pockets.  The  tails,  stretched  out  in  a 
straight  line  and  raised  into  a  vertical  position, 
rub  together,  slipping  over  each  other,  while  their 
extremities  are  bent  into  a  hook  and  gently,  over 
and  over  again,  knot  themselves  together  and  re- 
lease themselves.  Suddenly  the  amicable  pyramid 
falls  to  the  ground  and  each  scuttles  off  without 
further  ceremony. 

What  did  these  two  wrestlers  intend  by  their 
original  posture?  Was  it  the  grappling  of  two 
rivals?  It  would  seem  not,  so  pacific  was  the 
encounter.  Subsequent  observations  tell  me  that 
these  are  the  allurements  of  the  betrothal.  To 
declare  his  passion,  the  Scorpion  stands  on  his 
head.1 

This  reconnaissance  and  these  first  ad- 
vances are  followed  by  a  sentimental  prome- 
nade. 

Two  Scorpions  are  face  to  face,  their  claws 
outstretched,  their  hands  clasped.  Their  tails 
curved  in  graceful  spirals,  the  couple  wander  with 
measured  steps  the  length  of  the  window.  The 
male  goes  first,  walking  backwards,  smoothly,  en- 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  300-301.  The  Life  and  Love  of  the 
Insect,  chap.  xvii. 

24? 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

countering  no  resistance.  The  female  follows  obe- 
diently, held  by  the  tips  of  her  claws,  face  to  face 
with  her  leader. 

The  promenade  is  interrupted  by  halts  which 
do  not  in  any  way  modify  the  method  of  conjunc- 
tion; it  is  resumed,  now  in  this  direction,  now  in 
that,  from  one  end  of  the  enclosure  to  the  other. 
Nothing  indicates  the  goal  for  which  the  strollers 
are  making.  They  loiter,  musing  and  assuredly 
exchanging  glances.  Thus  in  my  village,  on  Sun- 
day, after  vespers,  the  young  people  stroll  along 
by  the  hedges,  two  by  two. 

Often  they  turn  to  one  side.  It  is  always  the 
male  who  decides  the  fresh  direction  to  be  followed. 
Without  releasing  his  companion's  hands  he  grace- 
fully turns  about,  placing  himself  side  by  side  with 
his  companion.  Then,  for  a  moment,  with  his 
tail  lying  flat,  he  caresses  her  back.  The  other 
does  not  stir;  she  remains  impassive.  Sometimes 
the  two  heads  touch,  bending  a  little  to  right 
and  left  as  if  whispering  into  each  other's  ears. 
What  are  they  saying?  How  translate  into  words 
their  silent  epithalamium? 

Sometimes,  too,  their  foreheads  touch  and  the 
two  mouths  meet  with  tender  effusiveness.  To  de- 
scribe these  caresses  the  word  "  kisses  "  occurs  to 
the  mind.  One  dare  not  employ  it;  for  here  is 
neither  head,  face,  lips,  or  cheeks.  Truncated  as 
though  by  a  stroke  of  the  shears,  the  animal  has 
not  even  a  snout.  Where  we  should  look  for  a 
face,  are  two  hideous  jaws  like  a  wall.  And  this 
for  the  Scorpion  is  the  height  of  beauty!  With 
248 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

his  fore  legs,  more  delicate  and  agile  than  the  rest, 
he  softly  pats  the  dreadful  mask,  to  his  eyes  an 
exquisite  face;  voluptuously  he  nibbles  at  it,  tickles 
with  his  jaws  the  face  touching  his,  as  hideous 
as  his  own.  His  tenderness  and  naivete  are  superb. 
The  dove,  they  say,  invented  the  kiss.  I  know 
of  a  precursor:  the  Scorpion.  .  .  . 

For  a  good  hour  I  watch,  unwearied,  these  in- 
terminable wanderings  to  and  fro.  Part  of  the 
household  lends  me  the  assistance  of  its  eyes.  De- 
spite the  lateness  of  the  hour,  our  combined  atten- 
tion allows  nothing  essential  to  escape  us.  We  ad- 
mire the  curious  yoking  of  the  couples  which  our 
presence  does  not  disturb  in  the  least.  We  find 
it  almost  graceful,  and  the  expression  is  not  exag- 
gerated. Semi-translucid  and  gleaming  in  the  light 
of  the  lantern,  the  happy  pair  seem  carved  from 
a  block  of  yellow  amber.  With  arms  outstretched 
and  tails  coiled  into  graceful  spirals,  they  gently 
stroll  about  with  measured  paces. 

At  last,  about  ten  o'clock,  a  separation  takes 
place.  The  male  has  come  across  a  potsherd  whose 
shelter  appears  to  him  suitable.  He  releases  one 
of  his  consort's  hands,  but  only  one,  and  still  hold- 
ing her  firmly  by  the  other  he  scratches  with  his 
legs  and  sweeps  with  his  tail.  A  grotto  opens.  He 
enters  it,  and  gradually,  without  violence,  he  draws 
the  patient  female  into  it.  Presently  both  have 
disappeared.  A  little  bank  of  sand  closes  their 
dwelling.  The  couple  are  at  home. 

To  disturb  them  would  be  a  blunder;  I  should 
249 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

intervene  too  soon,  at  an  inopportune  moment,  if 
I  attempted  to  see  at  once  what  is  happening  down 
there.  The  preliminaries  will  possibly  last  the 
greater  part  of  the  night,  and  long  vigils  are  be- 
ginning to  tell  upon  my  eighty  years.  My  legs 
give  way  and  sand  trickles  into  my  eyes.  Let  us 
go  to  bed. 

All  night  I  dream  of  Scorpions.  They  run  under 
my  blankets,  they  pass  over  my  face,  and  I  am 
not  greatly  disturbed  thereby,  such  remarkable 
things  do  I  see  in  my  imagination !  1 

Incidentally  we  may  remark  that  it  is  not 
only  in  his  imagination  that  insects  frequent 
his  bed-clothes  and  caress  his  bare  skin. 
Here  we  come  to  an  episode  of  the  entomolo- 
gist's private  life. 

When  wearing  his  last  costume,  the  Pine  Pro- 
cessionary  caterpillar  is  very  disagreeable  to  handle, 
or  even  to  observe  at  close  quarters.  I  happened, 
quite  unexpectedly,  to  learn  this  more  thoroughly 
than  I  wished. 

After  unsuspectingly  passing  a  whole  morning 
with  my  insects,  stooping  over  them,  magnifying- 
glass  in  hand,  to  examine  the  working  of  their  slits, 
I  found  my  forehead  and  eyelids  suffering  with  red- 
ness for  twenty-four  hours,  and  afflicted  with  an 
itching  even  more  painful  and  persistent  than  that 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  302-312.  The  Life  and  Love  of  the 
Insect,  chap.  xxii. 

250 


The  Hermit  of  Serignan 

produced  by  the  sting  of  a  nettle.  On  seeing  me 
come  down  to  dinner  in  this  sad  plight,  with  my 
eyes  reddened  and  swollen  and  my  face  unrecog- 
nisable, the  family  anxiously  inquired  what  had 
happened  to  me,  and  were  not  reassured  until  I 
told  them  of  my  mishap. 

I  unhesitatingly  attribute  my  painful  experience 
to  the  red  hairs  ground  to  powder  and  collected 
into  flakes.  My  breath  sought  them  out  in  the 
open  pockets  and  carried  them  to  my  face,  which 
was  very  near.  The  unthinking  intervention  of 
my  hands,  which  now  and  again  sought  to  ease 
the  discomfort,  merely  aggravated  the  ill  by  spread- 
ing the  irritating  dust.1 

What  would  to  another  have  been  merely 
an  annoying  accident  without  other  bearing 
than  a  commonplace  lesson  of  prudence,  be- 
came for  him  the  starting-point  of  a  whole 
series  of  instructive  experiments. 

Whatever  his  retirement  has  cost  him,  a 
man  so  passionately  devoted  to  animals  must 
bless  the  solitude  of  his  village  which  enables 
him  to  pass  all  his  time  in  observing  and 
describing  them.  He  congratulates  himself, 
indeed,  upon  his  premature  retirement,  which 
is  dooming  him  to  obscurity  and  impecuni- 
osity  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  at  the  same  time 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  pp.  377-378.  The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar, 
chap,  v.,  "  The  Moth." 

251 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

allowing  him  wholly  to  give  himself  up  to 
entomology. 

Ah,  beloved  village,  so  poor,  so  rustic,  what  a 
happy  inspiration  was  mine  when  I  came  to  you 
to  demand  of  you  a  hermit's  retreat,  where  I 
could  live  in  company  with  my  dear  insects  and 
thus  trace  in  a  worthy  manner  a  few  chapters  of 
their  marvellous  history ! 1 

1  Souvenir t,  in.,  p.  14. 


252 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    COLLABORATORS 

"  A/T  FABRE'S  life-story  is  one  of  the  fin- 
1V1.  est  that  could  be  related,"  said  M. 
Laffite  lately,  in  a  leading  article  in  La 
Nature.  "  It  is  simple.  It  is  the  humble  and 
tragic  story  of  a  persistent  struggle  between 
two  irreducible  adversaries,  on  the  one  hand 
the  most  precarious  conditions  of  the  strug- 
gle for  life,  and  on  the  other  the  power  of 
a  vocation,  as  though  riveted  to  his  being, 
which  urged  him  despite  everything  to  ob- 
servation, study,  and  an  understanding  of  the 
world  of  living  creatures,  and  in  particular 
of  the  insects."  1 

Such,  indeed,  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
aspects  of  the  great  naturalist's  life,  and  that 
under  which  it  appears  more  especially  in  its 
early  stages.  But  there  is  another  aspect, 
perhaps  even  more  remarkable,  under  which 
it  was  to  reveal  itself  more  particularly  in 
later  years.  Considering  the  first  of  these 

126th  March  1910, 

253 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

aspects,  we  shudder  at  the  violence  of  the 
battles  fought  for  the  triumph  of  his  ideal 
and  his  vocation;  considering  the  second,  we 
are  filled  with  delighted  admiration  by  the 
fascinating  and  triumphant  results  achieved 
by  this  ideal;  I  mean  the  marvels  and  allure- 
ments of  entomology. 

Under  the  clear  gaze  of  this  observer  of 
genius,  as  at  the  bidding  of  a  magic  ring,  a 
whole  world  of  tiny  creatures  rises  and 
moves  before  him,  recalling  the  world  of  Lil- 
liput,  but  still  more  marvellous,  and  more 
fertile  in  dramatic  incident  of  every  kind. 
"  No  romance  of  Jules  Verne's  or  Fenimore 
Cooper's  is  more  exciting."  * 

Fabre  is  the  first  of  writers  to  be  con- 
quered by  the  spectacle  that  unfolds  itself 
before  his  eyes;  conquered  in  the  whole  of 
his  activities,  in  his  imagination  and  sensi- 
bility, and  in  his  style,  which  quite  naturally 
adorns  itself  with  the  colours  of  his  insects; 
and  no  less  naturally  quivers  and  vibrates 
with  their  emotions.  Others  before  him  had 
studied  the  life  of  insects.  "  But  no  one 
had  put  so  much  persevering  perspicacity  into 
his  study  of  them;  no  one  above  all  had 
spoken  with  such  enthusiasm,  with  such  po- 
etical feeling,  of  the  wonders  of  which  it  is 

1E.  Perrier,  Revue  hebdomadaire,  October  22,  1910. 
254 


The  Collaborators 

full;  no  one  had  identified  himself,  as  did 
Fabre,  with  the  creatures  that  he  studied. 

"  The  insect  is  no  longer,  for  him,  the  low- 
est of  creatures,  disdained  by  all;  you  would 
think  it  was  a  person,  a  friend,  whose 
thoughts  and  emotions  he  divines,  in  whose 
joys  and  sorrows  he  shares;  he  speaks  to  it, 
reassures  it,  consoles  it,  advises  it  by  voice 
and  gesture,  and  even  helps  it  in  its  labours 
when  it  seems  at  the  end  of  its  resources. 
Of  all  these  shared  feelings,  these  anxieties 
experienced  in  common,  he  retains  a  vivid 
memory,  and  his  ready,  sympathetic,  vibrant 
pen  runs  across  the  page,  halts,  starts  off 
again,  scratching  the  paper,  uttering  cries  of 
joy,  or  weeping,  as  it  records  the  drama  all 
of  whose  vicissitudes  he  has  experienced." 

Not  in  vain  are  the  insects  "  the  children 
of  summer,"  and  not  in  vain  has  he  contem- 
plated them  "  in  the  blessed  season  "  under 
the  brilliance  and  the  ardours  of  noon.  4<  All 
the  sunshine  of  Provence  is  reflected  by  his 
picturesque  style;  and  it  seems  as  though  a 
miraculous  fairyland  is  unfolded  before  us, 
whose  scenery  is  all  of  the  mother-of-pearl, 
the  gold,  and  the  rainbow  hues  that  Nature 
has  spread  upon  the  aerial  oars  of  the 
Dragon-flies  and  the  Bees,  on  the  cuirass  of 
the  Scarabsei,  on  the  blazing  fans  that  the 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

Butterflies  wave  voluptuously,  intoxicating 
themselves  with  the  nectar  of  the  flowers. 

"  Nothing  in  all  this  is  far-fetched  or  de- 
liberate. Henri  Fabre  has  never  plumed 
himself  on  his  literary  achievements;  it  is  his 
real  self,  it  is  his  whole  mind  that  expresses 
itself  in  his  Souvenirs;  the  mind  of  an  ardent 
and  passionately  interested  but  precise  ob- 
server, a  mind  open  to  every  emotion,"  *  and 
sensitive  to  all  the  impressions  received  from 
all  these  little  lives,  that  have  no  secrets  from 
him.  This  mind  and  these  lives,  intimately 
and  sincerely  mingled,  and  ingenuously  re- 
flected in  the  pages  of  his  books;  this  is  the 
secret  of  the  most  vital,  the  most  picturesque, 
and  the  least  conventional  style  that  can  be 
imagined. 

Thus,  it  is  that,  aiding  his  imagination  and 
his  sensibility,  the  insects  themselves  became 
the  entomologist's  foremost  collaborators. 
Was  not  this  the  most  graceful  way  of  recog- 
nising the  services  which  he  has  rendered 
them,  and  of  repaying  the  love  which  he  has 
always  borne  them? 

If  they  have  received  much,  they  have 
also  given  much;  so  much,  that  we  may  well 
ask  who  can  have  gained  the  most — they  or 
the  entomologist — by  this  exchange  of  bene- 

1  E.  Perrier,  he  clt. 

256 


The  Collaborators 

fits?  Were  one  of  their  number  aware  of 
the  merits  of  their  partnership  he  would 
doubtless  consider  that  they  have  contributed 
to  his  fame  no  less  than  he  has  magnified 
theirs. 

Conquered  himself  without  reservation  by 
the  unexpected  beauties  of  entomology,  Fa- 
bre  was  fortunate  enough  to  see  a  like  fas- 
cination exerting  itself,  as  a  result  of  his 
teaching  and  example,  in  those  about  him,  his 
neighbours  and  his  friends,  just  as  it  now 
exerts  itself  through  his  books  upon  all  his 
readers. 

When  we  attempted  discreetly  to  lift  the 
veil  of  his  first  retirement  from  Orange, 
which  seemed  to  us  peculiarly  characteristic 
of  his  private  life,  we  had  occasion  to  note 
the  eminently  domestic  nature  of  his  life  and 
work,  and  the  assiduous  collaboration  in  the 
common  task  of  the  first-born  of  his  children. 
We  have  seen  Antonia,  Claire,  Jules  and 
Emile  x  rivalling  one  another  in  their  eager- 
ness to  assist  in  their  father's  observations, 
and  this  charming  devotion  outlived  the 
youthful  ardour  of  the  early  springtide  of 
life. 

Sometimes,    too,   the    children    anticipate 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  304-306,  320;  II.,  pp.  112,  130,  131 ;  ill., 
p.  16;  iv.,  pp.  142,  167,  183;  vi.,  p.  15;  viii.,  p.  159. 
257 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

their  father's  entomological  desires.  For 
example,  his  son  Emile  sends  him  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  Marseilles  a  nest  of  resin- 
working  Hymenoptera.1  His  daughter  Claire 
sends  him,  from  another  part  of  Provence, 
an  entomological  document  of  such  value 
that  it  "  reawakened  all  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
early  years."  It  related  to  one  of  his  fa- 
vourite insects,  another  Hymenopteron,  the 
Nest-building  Odynerus. 

It  was  the  end  of  February.  The  weather  was 
mild ;  the  sun  was  kind.  Setting  out  in  a  family 
party,  with  food  for  the  children,  apples,  and  a 
piece  of  a  loaf  in  the  basket,  we  were  going  to  see 
the  almond-trees  in  flower.  When  it  was  time  for 
lunch  we  halted  under  the  great  oak-trees,  when 
Anna,  the  youngest  of  the  household,  always  on 
the  look-out  for  small  creatures  with  her  new,  six- 
year-old  eyes,  called  to  me,  at  a  few  paces'  dis- 
tance from  our  party.  "  An  animal,"  she  said, 
"two,  three,  four — and  pretty  ones!  Come  and 
see,  papa,  come  and  see !  "  2 

This  was  one  of  the  rarest  discoveries:  a 
dozen  specimens  of  the  Pearly  Trox,  which 
were  making  a  meal  off  a  little  rabbit's  down 
which  some  fox's  stomach  had  been  unable 

1  Souvenirs,  IV.,  pp.  167-168,  182-183.  The  Mason 
Wasps,  chap,  viii.,  "  The  Nest-building  Odynerus." 

^Ibid.,  vi.,  pp.  4,  118-119,  249,  383;  VIII.,  p.  295;  X., 
pp.  15,  86,  112,  etc. 

258 


The  Collaborators 

to  exploit.  "  There  is  every  sort  of  taste 
in  this  world,  so  that  nothing  shall  be 
wasted!  " 

And  not  once  or  twice,  but  every  moment 
almost,  little  Paul,1  Marie  Pauline,2  and 
Anna  enliven  the  narrative  by  their  delight- 
ful appearances  and  their  inventive  activity. 
Little  Paul  above  all  is  an  auxiliary  of  the 
highest  value,  who  deserves  to  be  introduced 
to  the  reader  as  an  acknowledged  collabo- 
rator : 

I  speak  of  my  son  Paul,  a  little  chap  of  seven. 
My  assiduous  companion  on  my  hunting  expedi- 
tions, he  knows  better  than  any  one  of  his  age  the 
secrets  of  the  Cicada,  the  Locust,  the  Cricket,  and 
especially  the  Dung-beetle,  his  great  delight. 
Twenty  paces  away,  his  sharp  eyes  will  distinguish 
the  real  mound  that  marks  a  burrow  from  casual 
heaps  of  earth ;  his  delicate  ears  catch  the  Grass- 
hopper's faint  stridulation,  which  to  me  remains 
silent.  He  lends  me  his  sight  and  hearing;  and 
I,  in  exchange,  present  him  with  ideas,  which  he 
receives  attentively,  raising  wide,  blue,  questioning 
eyes  to  mine. 

Little  Paul's  exploits  are  innumerable,  and 
nothing  deters  him.  "  He  will  gather  hand- 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  246;  VI.,  p.  249;  vm.,  p.  3;  x.,  p. 
n,  etc. 

*  Ibid.,  vn.,  p.  29;  vm.,  pp.  5,  272;  x.,  pp.  in,  254,  etc. 
For  Lucie,  bis  grand-daughter,  aged  six,  see  n.,  p.  149. 
259 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

fuls  of  the  most  repulsive  caterpillars  with 
no  more  apprehension  than  if  he  were  picking 
a  bunch  of  violets."  Several  times  a  day  he 
scrupulously  inspects  the  under  sides  of  the 
dead  moles  placed  for  purposes  of  observa- 
tion in  the  harmas,  takes  note  of  the  labours 
of  the  Necrophori,  and,  without  more  ado, 
seizes  upon  the  fugitives  and  returns  them  to 
their  workshop.  He  alone  of  the  household 
ventures  to  lend  his  assistance  in  such  a  dis- 
gusting task. 

Little  Paul  is  always  equal  to  the  circum- 
stances. If  he  is  cool  he  is  no  less  enthusi- 
astic, but  it  is  a  well-directed  enthusiasm. 
For  proof  I  need  only  cite  the  night  of  the 
Great  Peacock,  the  honour  of  which  was  due 
almost  wholly  to  little  Paul. 

It  was  a  "  memorable  night,"  the  night  of 
the  Great  Peacock. 

Who  does  not  know  the  magnificent  Moth,  the 
largest  in  Europe,  clad  in  maroon  velvet  with  a 
necktie  of  white  fur?  The  wings,  with  their 
sprinkling  of  grey  and  brown,  crossed  by  a  faint 
zigzag  and  edged  with  smoky  white,  have  in  the 
centre  a  round  patch,  a  great  eye  with  a  black  pu- 
pil and  a  variegated  iris  containing  successive  black, 
white,  chestnut,  and  purple  arcs. 

Well,  on  the  morning  of  the  6th  of  May,  a  fe- 
male emerges  from  her  cocoon  in  my  presence,  on 
260 


The  Collaborators 

the  table  of  my  insect  laboratory.  I  forthwith 
cloister  her,  still  damp  with  the  humours  of  the 
hatching,  under  a  wire-gauze  bell-jar.  For  the 
rest,  I  cherish  no  particular  plans.  I  incarcerate 
her  from  mere  habit,  the  habit  of  the  observer  al- 
ways on  the  look-out  for  what  may  happen. 

It  was  a  lucky  thought.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  just  as  the  household  is  going  to  bed,  there 
is  a  great  stir  in  the  room  next  to  mine.  Little 
Paul,  half-undressed,  is  rushing  about,  jumping 
and  stamping,  knocking  the  chairs  over  like  a  mad 
thing.  1  hear  him  call  me: 

"Come  quick!"  he  screams.  "Come  and  see 
these  Moths,  big  as  birds!  The  room  is  full  of 
them!  " 

I  hurry  in.  There  is  enough  to  justify  the 
child's  enthusiastic  and  hyperbolical  exclamations, 
an  invasion  as  yet  unprecedented  in  our  house,  a 
raid  of  giant  Moths.  Four  are  already  caught 
and  lodged  in  a  bird-cage.  Others,  more  numer- 
ous, are  fluttering  on  the  ceiling. 

At  this  sight,  the  prisoner  of  the  morning  is  re- 
called to  my  mind. 

"  Put  on  your  things,  laddie,"  I  say  to  my  son. 
"  Leave  your  cage  and  come  with  me.  We  shall 
see  something  interesting.-" 

We  run  downstairs  to  go  to  my  study,  which 
occupies  the  right  wing  of  the  house.  In  the 
kitchen  I  find  the  servant,  who  is  also  bewildered 
by  what  is  happening  and  stands  flicking  her  apron 
at  great  Moths  whom  she  took  at  first  for  Bats. 

The  Great  Peacock,  it  would  seem,  has  taken 
26l 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

possession  of  pretty  well  every  part  of  the  house. 
What  will  it  be  around  my  prisoner,  the  cause  of 
this  incursion?  Luckily,  one  of  the  two  windows 
of  the  study  had  been  left  open.  The  approach 
is  not  blocked. 

We  enter  the  room,  candle  in  hand.  What  we 
see  is  unforgettable.  With  a  soft  flick-flack  the 
great  Moths  fly  around  the  bell-jar,  alight,  set 
off  again,  come  back,  fly  up  to  the  ceiling  and 
down.  They  rush  at  the  candle,  putting  it  out  with 
a  stroke  of  their  wings;  they  descend  on  our  shoul- 
ders, clinging  to  our  clothes,  grazing  our  faces. 
The  scene  suggests  a  wizard's  cave,  with  its  whirl 
of  Bats.  Little  Paul  holds  my  hand  tighter  than 
usual,  to  keep  up  his  courage. 

How  many  of  them  are  there?  About  a  score. 
Add  to  these  the  number  that  have  strayed  into 
the  kitchen,  the  nursery,  and  the  other  rooms  of 
the  house;  and  the  total  of  those  who  have  arrived 
from  the  outside  cannot  fall  far  short  of  forty. 
As  I  said,  it  was  a  memorable  evening,  this  Great 
Peacock  evening.  Coming  from  every  direction 
and  apprised  I  know  not  how,  here  are  forty  lovers 
eager  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  marriageable 
bride  born  that  morning  amid  the  mysteries  of  my 
study.1 

How  could  the  news  of  the  joyful  event 
have  reached  them?  No  doubt  by  some  mys- 

1  Souvenirs,  vn.,   pp.   139-41.      The  Life   of  the   Cater- 
pillar, chap,  xi.,  "  The  Great  Peacock  "  ;  also  Social  Life 
in  the  Insect  World,  chap.  xiv. 
262 


The  Collaborators 

terious  wireless  telegraphy  which  has  not  yet 
found  its  Branly. 

A  few  days  later  the  miracle  was  repeated 
before  the  wondering  eyes  of  the  naturalist 
and  his  faithful  acolyte,  by  another  moth, 
which  in  this  case  celebrated  its  nuptials  by 
daylight  in  the  bright  sunshine. 

Let  us  hasten  to  say  that  the  entomological 
zeal  of  this  little  moth-hunter  did  not  fade 
with  the  feverish  activity  of  the  very  young. 
As  we  see  him  in  1897,  at  the  age  of  seven, 
so  we  find  him  at  fifteen  in  1906.  The  im- 
portance and  value  of  his  services  had  only 
increased  as  his  capacities  increased,  and  as 
the  vigour  and  muscular  activity  of  his  be- 
loved father  diminished.  He  lent  him  his 
limbs  for  excursions  by  day  and  by  night. 

What  will  he  not  do  to  please  his  father? 
As  eagerly  as  he  lends  him  his  legs  on  his 
long  expeditions,  he  lends  him  his  arms  for 
all  the  tasks  that  are  forbidden  his  eighty 
years:  for  example,  the  excavation  of  the 
deep  galleries  of  certain  burrowing  insects. 

The  rest  of  the  family,  including  the  mother, 
being  no  less  zealous,  commonly  accompanies  us. 
Their  eyes  are  none  too  many  when  the  trench 
grows  deep  and  the  tiny  details  uncovered  by  the 
spade  have  to  be  scanned  from  a  distance.  What 
one  does  not  see,  another  does.  "  Huber,  having 
263 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

grown  blind,  studied  bees  through  the  meditation 
of  a  sharp-sighted  and  devoted  servant.  I  am  bet- 
ter off  than  the  great  Swiss  naturalist.  My  own 
sight,  which  is  still  pretty  good,  although  a  good 
deal  fatigued,  is  assisted  by  the  sharp-sighted  eyes 
of  my  whole  family.  If  I  am  still  able  to  pursue 
my  investigations  I  owe  it  to  them;  let  me  thank 
them  duly!"1 

This  man  must  be  something  of  a  sorcerer, 
and  his  science  must  have  something  of  magic 
in  it,  thus  to  mobilise  his  wife  and  children 
around  the  burrow  of  an  insect;  to  keep  them 
there  a  whole  morning  without  recking  of 
the  heat  and  fatigue,  and  to  bring  them  to 
their  hands  and  knees  before  the  apparition 
of  a  Dung-beetle. 

This  magic  power  of  entomology,  or  let 
us  rather  say  this  demoniacal  proselytism  of 
the  entomologist  in  favour  of  his  beloved 
science,  was  exerted  not  only  upon  his  family, 
but  upon  all  persons  liable  to  be  subjected 
to  his  influence  or  capable  of  serving  his 
projects. 

It  was  upon  children  that  he  fixed  his 
choice  in  the  first  place.  Fabre  had  always 
made  children  so  welcome,  had  always  treat- 
ed them  so  graciously,  that  he  was  assured 
beforehand  of  their  enthusiastic  support  of 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  p.  in. 

264 


The  Collaborators 

his  proposals,  even  if  he  was  not  forestalled 
by  their  offers  of  service.  Allured  by  the  coin 
or  the  slice  of  bread  and  jam,  or  the  sugar- 
plums, and  also,  we  may  say,  stimulated  by 
the  evident  good  faith  of  the  master,  and 
the  delightful  drollery  o-f  his  enterprises,  all 
the  juvenile  unemployed  of  Serignan  vie  with 
one  another  as  purveyors  to  the  entomologi- 
cal laboratory.  They  zealously  keep  the  lar- 
der of  the  Scarabasi  supplied,  without  neg- 
lecting that  of  the  Sexton-beetles  and  tutti 
quanti.  Thanks  to  them,  not  a  creature  in 
the  entomological  laboratory  goes  hungry. 
The  most  difficult  to  provide  for  have  al- 
ways a  well-spread  table,  although  this  is 
not  always  easy  to  ensure.  One  has  to  al- 
low for  the  thoughtlessness  of  children  and 
the  hazards  of  the  chase. 

But  in  spite  of  their  heedlessness,  and  be- 
cause of  their  very  ingenuousness,  there  are 
connections  in  which  the  child  is  an  incom- 
parable helper,  difficult  or  even  impossible 
to  replace.  This  Fabre  was  often  to  prove. 

To  continue  an  investigation  into  the  ol- 
factory faculties  of  insects  a  moth  is  re- 
quired which  is  rather  rare  and  difficult  to 
capture.  Can  he  obtain  this  moth? 

Yes,   I  shall  find   him;   indeed    I   have  him   al- 
ready.    A  little  chap  of  seven,  with  a  wide-awake 
265 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

face  that  doesn't  get  washed  every  day,  bare  feet 
and  a  pair  of  tattered  breeches  held  up  by  a  bit 
of  string,  a  boy  who  comes  regularly  to  supply 
the  house  with  turnips  and  tomatoes,  arrives  one 
morning  carrying  his  basket  of  vegetables.  After 
the  few  sous  due  to  his  mother  for  the  greens 
have  been  counted  one  by  one  into  his  hand,  he 
produces  from  his  pocket  something  which  he  found 
the  day  before,  beside  a  hedge,  while  picking  grass 
for  the  rabbits: 

"And  what  about  this?"  he  asks,  holding  the 
thing  out  to  me.  "What  about  this?  Will  you 
have  it?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  I'll  have  it.  Try  and  find  me 
some  more,  as  many  as  you  can,  and  I'll  promise 
you  plenty  of  rides  on  the  roundabout  on  Sun- 
day. Meanwhile,  my  lad,  here's  a  penny  for  you. 
Don't  make  a  mistake  when  you  give  in  your  ac- 
counts; put  it  somewhere  where  you  won't  mix  it 
up  with  the  turnip-money."  * 

The  precious  discovery  was  none  other 
than  the  cocoon  from  which  would  presently 
emerge  the  desired  Moth,  vainly  sought  after 
during  twenty  years'  residence  in  Serignan. 

Of  all  children  Fabre  must  have  had  a 
weakness  for  the  most  rustic  specimens;  for 
those  who,  by  virtue  of  their  situation  and 
by  inclination,  lived  more  nearly  in  contact 

1  Souvenirs,  VH,  360. 

266 


The  Collaborators 

with  Nature  and  the  animal  creation.  If 
they  are  ever  so  little  wide-awake,  they  are  at 
once,  for  him,  friends  whose  society  he  seeks 
and  helpers  whose  assistance  he  appreciates. 
Such  is  the  "  young  shepherd,  a  friend  of  the 
household,"  who  is  without  a  peer  in  catch- 
ing the  pill-rolling  beetles,1  so  greatly  does  he 
excel  in  profiting  by  the  truly  exceptional  ad- 
vantages which  the  pastoral  calling  offers 
from  this  point  of  view. 

In  such  company  insect-hunting  is  so  en- 
gaging and  profitable  that  our  naturalist  de- 
cides to  accompany  him.  Among  these  mem- 
orable mornings  there  is  one  which  deserves 
particular  mention,  for  it  was  truly  a  his- 
toric occasion: 

The  young  shepherd  who  had  been  told  in  his 
spare  time  to  watch  the  doings  of  the  Sacred  Beetle 
came  to  me  in  high  spirits,  one  Sunday  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  June,  to  say  that  he  thought  the  time 
had  come  to  begin  our  investigations.  He  had  de- 
tected the  insect  issuing  from  the  ground,  had  dug 
at  the  spot  where  it  made  its  appearance,  and  had 
found,  at  no  great  depth,  the  queer  thing  which  he 
was  bringing  me. 

Queer  it  was,  and  calculated  to  upset  the  little 
that  I  thought  I  knew.  In  shape  it  was  exactly 
like  a  tiny  pear  that  had  lost  all  its  fresh  colour 

1  Souvenirs,    v.,    pp.    43-44.      The    Sacred    Beetle    and 
Others,  chap,  iv.,  "The  Sacred  Beetle:     The  Pear." 
267 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

and  turned  brown  in  rotting.  What  could  this 
curious  object  be,  this  pretty  plaything  that  seemed 
to  have  come  from  a  turner's  workshop?  Was  it 
made  by  human  hands?  Was  it  a  model  of  the 
fruit  of  the  pear-tree  intended  for  some  children's 
museum?  One  would  say  so. 

The  shepherd  was  at  his  post  by  daybreak.  I 
joined  him  on  some  slopes  that  had  been  lately 
cleared  of  their  trees,  where  the  hot  summer  sun, 
which  strikes  with  such  force  on  the  back  of  one's 
neck,  could  not  reach  us  for  two  or  three  hours. 
In  the  cool  morning  air,  with  the  sheep  browsing 
under  Sultan's  care,  the  two  of  us  started  on  our 
search. 

A  Sacred  Beetle's  burrow  is  soon  found :  you  can 
tell  it  by  the  fresh  little  mound  of  earth  above  it. 
With  a  vigorous  turn  of  the  wrist,  my  companion 
digs  away  with  the  little  pocket-trowel  which  I 
have  lent  him.  Incorrigible  earthscraper  that  I 
am,  I  seldom  set  forth  without  this  light  but  serv- 
iceable tool.  While  he  digs  I  lie  down,  the  better 
to  see  the  arrangement  and  furniture  of  the  cellar 
which  we  are  unearthing,  and  I  am  all  eyes.  The 
shepherd  uses  the  trowel  as  a  lever  and,  with  his 
other  hand,  holds  back  and  pushes  aside  the  soil. 

Here  we  are!  A  cave  opens  out,  and,  in  the 
moist  warmth  of  the  yawning  vault,  I  see  a  splen- 
did pear  lying  full-length  upon  the  ground.  No,  I 
shall  not  soon  forget  this  first  revelation  of  the 
Scarab's  maternal  masterpiece.  My  excitement 
could  have  been  no  greater  had  I  been  an  arch- 
a?ologist  digging  among  the  ancient  relics  of  Egypt 
268 


The  Collaborators 

and  lighting  upon  the  sacred  insect  of  the  dead, 
carved  in  emerald,  in  some  Pharaonic  crypt.  O  in- 
effable moment,  when  truth  suddenly  shines  forth! 
What  other  joys  can  compare  with  that  holy  rap- 
ture! The  shepherd  was  in  the  seventh  heaven; 
he  laughed  in  response  to  my  smile  and  was  happy 
in  my  gladness.1 

There  was  truly  good  reason  for  the  natu- 
ralist and  his  young  friend  to  exult.  Henri 
Fabre  had  just  discovered  what  he  had 
vainly  been  seeking  for  more  than  thirty 
years.  He  now  knew  the  secret  of  the  Sa- 
cred Beetle's  nest;  he  knew  that  the  loaf 
of  the  future  nursling  was  not  in  the  least 
like  that  which  the  insect  rolls  along  the 
ground  for  its  own  use.  He  was  now  in  a 
position  to  correct  the  error  of  centuries 
which  he  himself  had  accepted  on  the  word 
of  the  masters.  And  thanks  to  whom? 
Thanks  to  a  shepherd  barely  "  brightened  by 
a  little  reading "  who  had  acted  as  his  as- 
sistant. The  poet  was  indeed  right  who 
said: 

"  On  a  souvent  besoin  d'un  plus  petit  que  soi." 
(Of  those  less  than  ourselves  we  oft  have  need.) 

So   much   the  worse   for   the   proud  who 

1  Souvenirs,    v.,    pp.    27-29.      The   Sacred   Beetle    and 
Others,  chap,  i.,  "The  Sacred  Beetle." 
269 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

refuse  to  realise  this  !  Fabre  was  not  of  their 
number;  and  more  than  once  it  was  greatly 
to  his  advantage  that  he  was  not. 

In  the  choice  of  his  collaborators,  then, 
Fabre  addressed  himself  by  preference  to 
children,  for  he  loved  their  perspicacity,  and 
above  all  "  the  naive  curiosity  so  like  his 
own." 

But  he  would  also  solicit  the  help  of  the 
adult  members  of  his  entourage,  if  by  their 
situation,  their  character,  their  good  nature, 
or  their  mental  temper  he  judged  them  ca- 
pable of  understanding  him  or,  at  all  events, 
of  giving  him  information  and  assisting  him 
in  his  labours. 

The  gardener,  the  butcher,  the  farmers, 
the  house-wives,  the  schoolmasters,  the  car- 
penter, the  truffle-hunter,  and  I  know  not 
whom  besides,  were  all  in  turn  called  upon 
to  lend  a  hand,  which  they  did  with  the  best 
grace  in  the  world,  each  according  to  his 
means  and  his  speciality. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  the  worthy  villagers 
of  Serignan  wondering  at  the  naturalist's 
questions,  and  ostensibly  flattering  them- 
selves that  they  know  more  than  he  does 
of  worm-eaten  vegetables.  On  the  other 
hand,  they  often  consult  him,  thereby  mak- 
ing amends  and  affording  a  practical  recog- 
270 


The  Collaborators 

nition  of  "  his  knowledge  concerning  plants 
and  little  creatures." 

A  late  frost  came  during  the  night,  withering 
the  leaf-buds  of  the  mulberry-trees  just  as  the  first 
leaves  were  unfolding. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  a  great  commo- 
tion in  the  neighbouring  farm-houses;  the  silk- 
worms were  hatched,  and  suddenly  there  was  no 
food  for  them.  They  must  wait  until  the  sun  re- 
paired the  disaster.  But  what  were  they  to  do  to 
keep  the  famished  newly-born  caterpillars  alive  for 
a  few  days?  They  knew  me  as  an  expert  in  the 
matter  of  plants;  my  cross-country  harvesting  ex- 
peditions had  won  me  the  reputation  of  a  medical 
herbalist.  With  the  flower  of  the  poppy  I  pre- 
pared an  elixir  which  strengthened  the  sight;  with 
borage  I  made  a  syrup  sovereign  against  whoop- 
ing-cough; I  distilled  camomile,  I  extracted  the 
essence  of  wintergreen.  In  short,  my  botany  had 
given  me  the  reputation  of  a  quack-salver.  That 
was  something,  after  all.  .  .  . 

The  housewives  came  seeking  me  from  all  direc- 
tions; with  tears  in  their  eyes  they  explained  how 
matters  stood.  What  could  they  give  their  grubs 
while  they  were  waiting  for  the  mulberry  to  leaf 
again?  A  serious  affair  this,  well  deserving  of 
commiseration.  One  was  counting  on  her  litter 
to  buy  a  roll  of  linen  for  her  daughter  who  was 
about  to  get  married ;  another  confided  to  me  her 
plan  of  buying  a  pig,  which  she  would  fatten  for 
the  following  winter;  all  deplored  the  handful  of 
271 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

five-franc  pieces,  which,  placed  at  the  bottom  of 
the  secret  hiding-place  in  the  wardrobe,  in  an  old 
stocking,  would  have  afforded  relief  in  difficult 
times.  Full  of  their  woes,  they  unfolded  before 
my  eyes  a  scrap  of  flannel  on  which  the  little  crea- 
tures were  swarming: 

"  Regardas,  Moussu;  venoun  espeli,  et  ren  per 
lour  douna!  Ah!  pecdire!  " 

Poor  people,  what  a  hard  life  is  yours:  honour- 
able above  all,  but  of  all  the  most  uncertain !  You 
exhaust  yourselves  with  labour,  and  when  you  are 
almost  within  sight  of  its  reward  a  few  hours  of  a 
cold  night,  which  has  come  upon  you  suddenly, 
have  destroyed  the  harvest.  To  help  these  afflicted 
women  would,  it  seemed  to  me,  be  a  very  difficult 
task.  However,  I  tried,  guided  by  botany,  which 
recommended  me  to  offer,  as  a  substitute  for  the 
mulberry,  the  plants  of  related  families:  the  elm, 
the  nettle-tree,  the  nettle,  the  pellitory.  Their 
budding  leaves,  chopped  small,  were  offered  to  the 
silkworms.  Other  experiments,  much  less  logical, 
were  tried  according  to  individual  inspiration. 
None  of  them  succeeded.1  One  and  all,  the  newly- 
born  larvae  starved  to  death.  My  fame  as  a  quack 
must  have  suffered  somewhat  from  this  failure. 
But  was  it  really  my  fault?  No,  it  was  the  silk- 

1  It  is  exceedingly  curious  that  neither  Fabre  nor  the 
silk-growers  knew  what  every  English  schoolboy  knows 
sc  well — that  silkworms  thrive  upon  lettuce  leaves,  the 
ordinary  substitute,  in  England,  for  the  mulberry-leaf. 
Botany,  of  course,  would  not  suggest  such  a  substitute. — 
B.  M. 

272 


The  Collaborators 

worm's,  too  faithful  to  its  mulberry-leaf.  .  .  .  Lar- 
vae that  live  on  a  vegetable  diet  will  not  by  any 
means  lend  themselves  to  a  change  of  food.  Each 
has  its  plant  or  group  of  plants,  apart  from  which 
nothing  is  acceptable.1 

Science  as  this  great  naturalist  understands 
it  is  amiable  and  by  no  means  pedantic;  full 
of  sympathy  with  the  humble,  since  he  him- 
self has  never  ceased  to  be  one  of  them,  he 
does  not  disdain  to  consider  their  least  pre- 
occupations, and  to  become,  by  turns,  their 
master  and  their  disciple. 

1  Souvenirs,  ill.,  pp.  297-299. 


273 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  COLLABORATORS:  (CONTINUED) 

T  all  the  naturalist's  experiments  are 
dedicated  to  practical  folk;  some  are 

reserved  rather  for  the  intellectual.     Let  us 

proceed  to  the  facts: 

To-day  is  Shrove  Tuesday,  a  reminiscence  of  the 
ancient  Saturnalia.  I  am  meditating,  on  this  occa- 
sion, a  fantastic  dish  which  would  have  delighted 
the  gourmets  of  Rome.  .  .  . 

There  will  be  eight  of  us;  first  of  all  my  family, 
and  then  two  friends,  probably  the  only  persons 
in  the  village  before  whom  I  could  permit  myself 
such  eccentricities  of  diet  without  jocular  com- 
ment upon  what  would  be  regarded  as  a  depraved 
mania. 

One  of  these  is  the  schoolmaster.  Since  he  per- 
mits it  and  does  not  fear  the  comments  of  the  fool- 
ish, if  by  chance  the  secret  of  our  feast  should  be 
divulged,  we  will  call  him  by  his  name,  Jullian.  A 
man  of  broad  views  and  reared  upon  science,  his 
mind  is  open  to  truth  of  every  kind. 

The  second,  Marius  Guigne,  is  a  blind  man 
who,  a  carpenter  by  profession,  handles  his  plane 
and  saw  in  the  blackest  darkness  with  the  same 
274 


The  Collaborators 

sureness  of  hand  as  that  of  a  skilful-sighted  person 
in  broad  daylight.  He  lost  his  sight  in  his  youth, 
after  he  had  known  the  joys  of  light  and  the  won- 
ders of  colour.  As  a  compensation  for  perpetual 
darkness  he  has  acquired  a  gentle  philosophy,  al- 
ways smiling;  an  ardent  desire  to  fill,  as  far  as 
.possible,  the  gaps  in  his  meagre  primary  educa- 
tion; a  sensitiveness  of  hearing  able  to  seize  the 
subtle  delicacies  of  music;  and  a  fineness  of  touch 
most  extraordinary  in  fingers  calloused  by  the  la- 
bours of  the  workshop.  During  our  conversations, 
if  he  wishes  to  be  informed  as  to  this  or  that 
geometrical  property,  he  holds  out  his  widely- 
opened  hand.  This  is  our  blackboard.  With  the 
tip  of  my  forefinger,  I  trace  on  it  the  figure  to  be 
constructed;  accompanying  my  light  touches  with 
a  brief  explanation.  This  is  enough;  the  idea  is 
grasped,  and  the  saw,  plane,  and  lathe  will  trans- 
late it  into  reality. 

On  Sunday  afternoons,  in  winter  especially,  when 
three  logs  flaming  on  the  hearth  form  a  delicious 
contrast  to  the  brutalities  of  the  Mistral,  they  meet 
in  my  house.  The  three  of  us  form  the  village 
Athenaeum,  the  Rural  Institute,  where  we  speak 
of  everything  except  hateful  politics.  ...  At  such 
a  meeting,  the  delight  of  my  solitude,  to-day's  din- 
ner was  devised.  The  special  dish  consists  of  the 
cossus,  a  delicacy  of  great  renown  in  ancient  times. 

When  he  had  eaten  a  sufficient  number  of  na- 
tions, the  Roman,  brutalised  by  excess  of  luxury, 
began  to  eat  worms.  Pliny  tells  us:  "  Romanis  in 
hoc  luxuria  esse  coep'it,  preegrandesque  roborurn 
275 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

vermes  delicatiore  sunt  in  cibo :  Cossos  vacant." 
(The  Romans  have  reached  such  a  degree  of  lux- 
ury at  the  table  that  they  esteem  as  delicious  tit-bits 
the  great  worm  from  the  oak-tree  known  as  Cos- 
sus.) 

I  do  not  know  with  what  sauce  the  Cossus  was 
eaten  in  the  days  of  the  Csesars,  the  Apicius  of  the 
period  having  left  us  no  information  on  this  point. 
Ortolans  are  roasted  on  a  spit;  it  would  be  profan- 
ing them  to  add  the  relish  of  complicated  prepara- 
tion. Let  us  proceed  in  the  same  manner  with  the 
Cossus,  these  Ortolans  of  entomology.  Spitted  in 
rows,  they  are  exposed  on  the  grill  to  the  heat  of 
live  embers.  A  pinch  of  salt,  the  necessary  condi- 
ment of  our  dish,  is  the  only  addition  made  to  it. 
The  roast  grows  golden,  softly  sizzling,  weeps  a 
few  oily  tears  which  catch  fire  on  contact  with  the 
coals  and  burn  with  a  white  flame.  It  is  done! 
Let  us  serve  it  hot. 

Encouraged  by  my  example,  my  family  bravely 
attack  their  roast.  The  schoolmaster  hesitates, 
the  dupe  of  his  imagination,  which  sees  the  great 
grubs  of  a  little  while  ago  crawling  across  his 
plate.  He  has  taken  for  himself  the  smaller  speci- 
mens, as  the  recollection  of  these  disturbs  him  less. 
Less  subject  to  imaginary  dislikes,  the  blind  man 
ruminates  and  savours  them  with  every  sign  of 
satisfaction. 

The  testimony  is  unanimous.  The  roast  is  juicy, 
tender,  and  extremely  tasty.  One  recognises  in  it 
a  certain  flavour  of  burnt  almonds  which  is  en- 
hanced by  a  vague  aroma  of  vanilla.  In  short, 
276 


The  Collaborators 

the  vermicular  dish  is  found  to  be  highly  accept- 
able, one  might  even  say  excellent.  What  would 
it  be  if  the  refined  art  of  the  gourmets  of  antiquity 
had  cooked  it!  ... 

If  I  have  made  this  investigation  it  was  cer- 
tainly not  in  the  hope  of  enriching  the  bill  of  fare. 
The  rarity  of  the  great  grubs  and  the  repugnance 
which  all  kinds  of  vermin  arouses  in  most  of  us 
will  always  stand  in  the  way  of  my  discovery  be- 
coming a  common  dish.  .  .  . 

As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  was  still  less  the 
desire  for  a  dainty  mouthful  that  actuated  me.  My 
sobriety  is  not  easily  tempted.  A  handful  of  cher- 
ries pleases  me  better  than  the  preparations  of  our 
kitchens.  My  only  desire  was  to  elucidate  a  point 
of  natural  history.1 

I  certainly  admire  this  zeal  for  science 
and  this  absence  of  prejudice  even  in  the 
choice  of  food;  yet  1  am  tempted  to  remark 
that  in  the  matter  of  intrepidity,  whether 
in  respect  of  food  or  of  science,  there  is  one 
of  Fabre's  circle  of  acquaintances  who  sur- 
passed the  schoolmaster  and  perhaps  equals 
Fabre  himself.  I  am  referring  to  Favier. 
Who,  then,  is  Favier? 

Favier  is  an  old  soldier.  He  has  pitched  his  hut 
of  clay  and  branches  under  the  African  carob-trees ; 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  pp.  102-109. 
277 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

he  has  eaten  sea-urchins  at  Constantinople;  he  has 
shot  starlings  in  the  Crimea,  during  a  lull  in  the 
firing.  He  has  seen  much  and  remembered  much. 
In  winter,  when  work  in  the  fields  ends  at  four 
o'clock  and  the  evenings  are  long,  he  puts  away 
rake,  fork,  and  barrow,  and  comes  and  sits  on  the 
hearth-stone  of  the  kitchen  fireplace,  where  the 
billets  of  ilex-wood  blaze  merrily.  He  fetches  out 
his  pipe,  fills  it  methodically  with  a  moistened 
thumb  and  smokes  it  solemnly.  He  has  been  think- 
ing of  it  for  many  a  long  hour;  but  he  has  ab- 
stained, for  tobacco  is  expensive.  The  privation 
has  doubled  the  charm ;  and  not  one  of  the  puffs  re- 
curring at  regular  intervals  is  wasted. 

Meanwhile,  we  start  talking.  Favier  is,  in  his 
fashion,  one  of  those  bards  of  old  who  were  given 
the  best  seat  at  the  hearth,  for  the  sake  of  their 
tales;  only  my  story-teller  was  formed  in  the  bar- 
rack-room. No  matter:  the  whole  household,  large 
and  small,  listen  to  him  with  interest;  though  his 
speech  is  full  of  vivid  images,  it  is  always  decent. 
It  would  be  a  great  disappointment  to  us  if  he  did 
not  come,  when  his  work  was  done,  to  take  his 
ease  in  the  chimney-corner. 

What  does  he  talk  about  to  make  him  so  popu- 
lar? He  tells  us  what  he  saw  of  the  coup  d'Etat 
to  which  we  owe  the  hated  Empire;  he  talks  of  the 
brandy  served  out  and  of  the  firing  into  the  mob. 
He — so  he  assures  me — always  aimed  at  the  wall; 
and  I  accept  his  word  for  it,  so  distressed  does  he 
appear  to  me  and  so  ashamed  of  having  taken  a 
hand,  however  innocent,  in  that  felon's  game. 
278 


The  Collaborators 

He  tells  us  of  his  watches  in  the  trenches  before 
Sebastopol;  he  speaks  of  his  sudden  terror  when, 
at  night,  all  alone  on  outpost  duty,  squatting  in 
the  snow,  he  saw  fall  beside  him  what  he  calls  a 
flower-pot.  It  blazed  and  flared  and  shone  and  lit 
up  everything  around.  The  infernal  machine 
threatened  to  burst  at  every  second ;  and  our  man 
gave  himself  up  for  lost.  But  nothing  happened: 
the  flower-pot  went  out  quietly.  It  was  a  star- 
shell,  an  illuminating  contrivance  fired  to  recon- 
noitre the  assailant's  outworks  in  the  dark. 

The  tragedy  of  the  battle-field  is  followed  by 
the  comedy  of  the  barracks.  He  lets  us  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  stew-pan,  the  secrets  of  the  mess, 
the  humorous  hardships  of  the  cells.  And,  as  his 
stock  of  anecdotes,  seasoned  with  racy  expressions, 
is  inexhaustible,  the  supper  hour  arrives  before  any 
of  us  has  had  time  to  remark  how  long  the  eve- 
ning is. 

Favier  first  attracted  my  notice  by  a  master- 
stroke. One  of  my  friends  had  sent  me  from  Mar- 
seilles a  pair  of  enormous  Crabs,  the  Maia,  the  Sea- 
spider  or  Spider-crab  of  the  fishermen.  I  was 
unpacking  the  captives  when  the  workmen  returned 
from  their  dinner:  painters,  stone-masons,  plasterers 
engaged  in  repairing  the  house  which  had  been 
empty  so  long.  At  the  sight  of  those  strange  ani- 
mals, studded  with  spikes  all  over  the  carapace 
and  perched  on  long  legs  that  give  them  a  certain 
resemblance  to  a  monstrous  Spider,  the  onlookers 
gave  a  cry  of  surprise,  almost  of  alarm.  Favier, 
for  his  part,  remained  unmoved;  and,  as  he  skil- 
279 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

fully  seized  the  terrible  Spider  struggling  to  get 
away,  he  said: 

"  I  know  that  thing;  I've  eaten  it  at  Vasna. 
It's  first-rate." 

And  he  looked  round  at  the  bystanders  with  an 
air  of  humorous  mockery  which  was  meant  to 
convey : 

"  You've  never  been  out  of  your  hole,  you  peo- 
pie." 

Favier  knows  many  things;  and  he  knows  them 
more  particularly  through  having  eaten  them.  He 
knows  the  virtues  of  a  Badger's  back,  the  tooth- 
some qualities  of  the  leg  of  a  Fox;  he  is  an  expert 
as  to  the  best  part  of  that  Eel  of  the  bushes,  the 
Snake;  he  has  browned  in  oil  the  Eyed  Lizard, 
the  ill-famed  Rassade  of  the  South;  he  has  thought 
out  the  recipe  of  a  fry  of  Locusts.  I  am  astounded 
at  the  impossible  stews  which  he  has  concocted  dur- 
ing his  cosmopolitan  career. 

I  am  no  less  surprised  at  his  penetrating  eye  and 
his  memory  for  things.  I  have  only  to  describe 
some  plant,  which  to  him  is  but  a  nameless  weed, 
devoid  of  the  least  interest;  and,  if  it  grows  in  our 
woods,  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  he  will  bring  it  to 
me  and  tell  me  the  spot  where  I  can  pick  it  for 
myself.  The  botany  of  the  infinitesimal  even  does 
not  foil  his  perspicacity. 

But,  above  all,  he  excels  in  ridding  me  of  the 
troublesome  folk  whom  I  meet  upon  my  rambles. 
The  peasant  is  naturally  curious,  as  fond  of  ask- 
ing questions  as  a  child  ;  but  his  curiosity  is  flavoured 
with  a  spice  of  malice  and  in  all  his  questions  there 
280 


The  Collaborators 

is  an  undercurrent  of  chaff.  What  he  fails  to  un- 
derstand he  turns  into  ridicule.  And  what  can  be 
more  ludicrous  than  a  gentleman  looking  through  a 
glass  at  a  Fly  captured  with  a  gauze  net,  or  a  bit 
of  rotten  wood  picked  up  from  the  ground  ?  Favier 
cuts  short  the  bantering  catechism  with  a  word.1 

Favier  has  other  qualities:  he  does  not 
hesitate  in  the  face  of  difficulties,  and  it  is 
a  point  of  honour  with  him  to  acquit  him- 
self manfully,  however  arduous  the  task. 

Favier  is  not  content  with  faithfully  exe- 
cuting his  master's  orders.  Like  all  intel- 
ligent and  devoted  servants,  he  divines  and 
anticipates  his  desires.  He  has  happy  ideas 
of  initiative. 

On  the  1 4th  of  April  1880,  Favier  was  clearing 
away  a  heap  of  mould  resulting  from  the  waste 
weeds  and  leaves  heaped  up  in  a  corner  against 
the  enclosing  wall.  ...  In  the  midst  of  his  work 
with  spade  and  wheelbarrow,  he  suddenly  called 
me: 

"  A  find,  sir,  a  splendid  find !     Come  and  look !  " 
I  hurried  up.    There,  indeed,  was  a  splendid  dis- 
covery, and  of  a  kind  to  fill  me  with  delight,  re- 
awakening all  my  old  memories  of  the   Bois  des 
Issarts.2 


^Souvenirs,  II.,  pp.  i  to  19. 
2  I  bid.,  p.  104. 

28l 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

There  swarmed  a  whole  population  of 
Scarabaei,  in  the  form  of  larvae,  nymphs,  and 
adult  insects.  There,  too,  were  crowds  of 
Rose-beetles  (Cetoniae),  all  stages  being  rep- 
resented. There,  too,  were  great  numbers  of 
Scoliae,  the  Two-striped  Scoliae  having  re- 
cently emerged  from  their  cocoons,  which  still 
had  beside  them  the  skins  of  the  game  served 
to  the  larvae;  and  there,  before  the  natural- 
ist's eyes,  was  the  solution  of  the  problem 
of  the  Scolia's  food,  which  "  his  painful  re- 
searches in  the  Bois  des  Issarts  had  not  en- 
abled him  to  solve."  *  Less  than  this  had 
been  needed  for  Favier  to  merit  mention  in 
the  order  of  the  day! 

At  the  beginning  of  this  chapter  should  we 
not  have  placed  the  insects  themselves  at  the 
head  of  Fabre's  collaborators  in  his  re- 
searches? When  the  insect  takes  a  hand, 
Favier  himself  is  out  of  the  running. 

In  the  meantime  we  have  no  intention  of 
belittling  Favier,  or  of  retracting  the  praise 
which  has  been  lavished  upon  him.  Despite 
his  inevitable  deficiencies,  and  sometimes  even 
because  of  them,  Fabre  owes  him  much.  He 
owes  him  important  manual  services;  he  owes 
him  curious  data  and  inestimable  discoveries; 
lastly,  he  owes  him  hitherto  unknown  opin- 

1  Souvenirs,  in.,  pp.  12-14. 
282 


The  Collaborators 

ions  relating  to  evolution,  for  Favier  is  an 
evolutionist,  and  a  highly  original  one. 

For  him  the  bat  is  a  rat  that  has  grown  wings ; 
the  cuckoo  is  a  sparrow-hawk  that  has  retired  from 
business;  the  slug,  a  snail  which,  through  advanc- 
ing age,  has  lost  its  shell;  the  night-jar,  the  etraou- 
cho-grepaou,  as  he  calls  it,  is  an  old  toad  which, 
having  developed  a  passion  for  milk,  has  grown 
feathers  in  order  to  enter  the  folds  and  milk  the 
goats.  It  would  be  impossible  to  get  these  fantastic 
ideas  out  of  his  head.  Favier  is,  as  will  be  seen, 
an  evolutionist  after  his  fashion,  and  a  daring  evo- 
lutionist. Nothing  gives  him  pause  in  tracing  the 
descent  of  animals.  He  has  a  reply  for  every- 
thing: this  comes  from  that.  If  you  ask  why,  he 
replies:  "See  how  like  they  are!" 

Shall  we  reproach  him  for  these  insanities  when 
we  hear  scientists  acclaiming  the  pithecanthropos 
as  the  precursor  of  man,  led  astray  as  they  are  by 
the  formation  of  the  monkey?  Shall  we  reject  the 
metamorphoses  of  the  chavucho-grapaou  when  there 
are  men  who  will  seriously  tell  us  that  in  the  pres- 
ent condition  of  science  it  is  absolutely  proved  that 
man  is  descended  from  some  vaguely  sketched  mon- 
key? Of  the  two  transformations  Favier's  seems 
to  me  the  more  admissible.  A  painter,  a  friend  of 
mine,  the  brother  of  the  great  musician,  Felicien 
David,  imparted  to  me  one  day  his  reflections  con- 
cerning the  human  structure.  "  Ve,  moun  bd 
ami,"  he  said,  "  ve:  Thome  a  lou  dintre  d'un  por  et 
283 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

lou  deforo  d'uno  mounino  "  (Man  has  the  inside  of 
a  pig  and  the  outside  of  a  monkey).  I  recommend 
the  painter's  jest  to  those  who  wish  to  derive  man 
from  the  wild  boar,  when  the  monkey  is  out  of 
fashion.  According  to  David  the  descent  is  con- 
firmed by  internal  resemblances:  "  L'home  a  lou 
dintre  d'un  por" 

And,  therefore,  the  naturalist  proceeds  to 
make  some  wise  reflections  which  we  owe  in 
the  first  place  to  Favier: 

Let  us  avoid  generalisations  that  are  not  founded 
upon  sufficiently  numerous  and  solid  foundations. 
Where  these  foundations  are  lacking  the  child  is 
the  great  generalise!. 

For  him  the  feathered  race  means  just  the  bird, 
and  the  reptile  family  the  snake,  without  other 
differences  than  those  of  magnitude.  Ignorant  of 
everything,  he  generalises  to  the  utmost,  simplify- 
ing in  his  inability  to  see  the  complex.  Later  on 
he  will  learn  that  the  Sparrow  is  not  the  Bull- 
finch, that  the  Linnet  is  not  the  Greenfinch ;  he  will 
particularise,  and  he  will  do  so  more  and  more 
daily  as  his  faculty  of  observation  is  more  widely 
exercised.  At  first  he  saw  nothing  but  resem- 
blances, now  he  sees  differences,  but  not  yet  so 
clearly  as  to  avoid  incongruous  comparisons  and 
zoological  solecisms  like  those  which  my  gardener 
utters.1 

1  Souvenirs,  iv.,  pp.  59-60. 

284 


The  Collaborators 

This  chapter  was  to  have  taken  the  form  of  a 
letter  addressed  to  Charles  Darwin,  the  illustrious 
naturalist  who  now  lies  buried  beside  Newton  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  It  was  my  task  to  report  to 
him  the  result  of  some  experiments  which  he  had 
suggested  to  me  in  the  course  of  our  correspond- 
ence: a  very  pleasant  task,  for,  though  facts,  as  I 
see  them,  disincline  me  to  accept  his  theories,  I 
have  none  the  less  the  deepest  veneration  for  his 
noble  character  and  his  scientific  honesty.  I  was 
drafting  my  letter  when  the  sad  news  reached 
me :  Darwin  was  dead : x  after  searching  the  mighty 
question  of  origins,  he  was  now  grappling  with  the 
last  and  darkest  problem  of  the  hereafter.2 

This  is  what  we  need  at  the  head  of  the 
seventh  chapter  of  the  second  volume  of  the 
Souvenirs.  Especially  coming  after  what  has 
gone  before  them,  these  few  lines  shed  a 
more  brilliant  light  upon  Fabre's  secret  at- 
titude toward  those  very  thinkers  whose  ideas 
he  opposes  most  keenly  than  could  any  num- 
ber of  lectures.  We  have  here  the  practical 
exemplification  of  that  beautiful  profession 
of  faith  inspired  by  Saint  Augustine,  which 
he  has  recorded  elsewhere:  "I  wage  war 
boldly  upon  those  ideas  that  I  believe  untrue : 


1  Darwin  died  at  Down,  in  Kent,  on  the  igth  of  April, 
1882.— A.  T.  DE  M. 

2  Souvenirs,  II.,  p.  99. 

285 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

but  God  preserve  me  from  ever  doing  so 
upon  those  who  maintain  them."  1 

In  his  constant  skirmishes  against  the 
theory  of  evolution,  even  in  the  set  battles 
which  he  occasionally  fights,  whenever  he 
writes  Charles  Darwin's  name  he  mentions 
it  with  evident  accents  of  respect  and  sym- 
pathy, gladly  referring  to  him  as  "  the  mas- 
ter," "  the  illustrious  master,"  "  the  vener- 
ated master." 

On  his  part  the  English  scientist  does  full 
justice  to  the  French  scientist's  incomparable 
mastery  in  the  study  of  insects.  We  have 
often  mentioned  the  title  of  "  inimitable  ob- 
server "  which  he  gives  him  in  his  work  on 
the  Origin  of  Species.  In  a  letter  dated  the 
1 6th  of  April  1881,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Ro- 
manes, who  was  preparing  a  book  on  Animal 
Intelligence:  "  I  do  not  know  whether  you 

1  Souvenirs,  H.,  p.  160.  He  makes  this  declaration  in 
respect  of  an  error  which  he  had  incorrectly  attributed 
to  Erasmus  Darwin,  the  grandfather  of  the  famous 
Charles  Darwin,  on  the  faith  of  an  unfaithful  transla- 
tion due  to  the  entomologist  Lacordaire.  The  mistake, 
which  is  really  Lacordaire's,  not  Erasmus  Darwin's,  con- 
sisted in  confusing  the  Sphex  with  a  common  Wasp. 
Charles  Darwin,  having  informed  Fabre  that  his  grand- 
father had  said  "a  wasp,"  the  French  naturalist  imme- 
diately inserted  this  correction  in  a  note,  in  the  second 
volume  of  the  Souvenirs,  which  I  had  not  yet  come  across 
when  I  cited  the  passage  in  question.  I  can  therefore 
say  with  M.  Fabre:  "May  this  note  amend,  within  the 
proper  limits,  the  assertions  which  I  made  in  all  good 
faith." 

286 


The  Collaborators 

would  care  to  discuss  in  your  book  some  of 
the  more  complicated  and  marvellous  in- 
stincts. It  is  an  ungrateful  task  .  .  .  But 
if  you  discuss  some  of  these  instincts,  it  seems 
to  me  that  you  could  not  take  a  more  inter- 
esting point  than  that  of  the  animals  that 
paralyse  their  prey,  as  Fabre  has  described 
in  his  astonishing  memoir  in  the  Annales 
des  sciences  naturelles,  a  memoir  which  he 
has  since  amplified  in  his  admirable  Sou- 
venirs." 

When  he  wrote  this  Darwin  was  ac- 
quainted only  with  the  first  volume  of  the 
Souvenirs.1  What  would  he  have  said  if 
he  could  have  enjoyed  the  whole  of  the 
learned  entomologist's  masterly  work? 

In  reading  this  first  volume,  the  attention 
of  the  English  naturalist  had  been  especially 
struck  by  the  operations  of  the  Hunting 
Wasps,  which  were  peculiarly  upsetting  to  his 
theories. 

Darwin  was  visibly  preoccupied  by  the 
problem  of  instinct  as  propounded  by  the  ir- 
refutable observations  of  the  French  ento- 
mologist, but  he  did  not  despair  of  finding 
a  solution  in  conformity  with  his  system. 
Fabre,  on  his  side,  believed  that  his  position 

1  Darwin  died  in  1882,  and  the  second  volume  of  the 
Souvenirs  appeared  in  1883. 

287 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

was  inexpugnable,  and  was  not  without  hope 
of  converting  Darwin  by  what  appeared  to 
him  to  be  the  evidence  of  the  facts. 

Nowhere  does  the  theory  of  evolution  come  full 
tilt  against  so  immovable  an  obstacle.  Darwin,  a 
true  judge,  did  not  fail  to  realise  this.  He  greatly 
dreaded  the  problem  of  the  instincts.  My  first  re- 
sults in  particular  had  left  him  anxious.  If  he  had 
known  the  tactics  of  the  Hairy  Ammophila,  the 
Mantis-hunting  Tachytus,  the  Philanthus  apivorus, 
the  Calicurgus,  and  other  predatory  insects  which 
have  since  been  investigated,  his  anxiety,  I  believe, 
would  have  become  a  frank  avowal  of  his  inability 
to  get  instinct  to  enter  the  world  of  his  formula. 
Alas!  the  philosopher  of  Down  left  us  when  the 
discussion  was  only  just  beginning,  with  experiment 
to  fall  back  upon,  a  method  superior  to  all  argu- 
ments. The  little  that  I  had  published  at  that 
period  left  him  still  some  hope  of  explanation.  In 
his  eyes  instinct  is  always  an  acquired  habit. 

We  have  already  mentioned  Fabre's  rela- 
tions with  Moquin-Tandon,  Dufour,  Pasteur, 
and  Duruy.  Other  names  might  be  added 
to  complete  the  list  of  his  friends,  or  the  cor- 
respondents whom  he  succeeded  in  interest- 
ing in  entomology  and  admitting  more  or 
less  to  participation  in  his  researches.1  We 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  188,  189;  H.,  pp.  103;  VI.,  pp.  25,  166, 
203 ;  VH.,  pp.  8,  9,  57,  161,  etc. 
288 


The  Collaborators 

will  confine  ourselves  here  to  mentioning  a 
worthy  Brother  of  the  Christian  Colleges 
who  afforded  him  one  of  the  great  pleasures 
of  his  life  by  enabling  him  to  satisfy,  at  a 
small  expense,  without  emptying  his  purse  or 
too  greatly  curtailing  his  patient  observations, 
one  of  the  wilder  longings  of  his  youth,  from 
which  he  was  not  always  exempted  by  age : 

To  travel  the  world,  by  land  and  sea,  from  pole 
to  pole;  to  cross-question  life,  under  every  clime, 
in  the  infinite  variety  of  its  manifestations:  that 
surely  would  be  glorious  luck  for  him  that  has  eyes 
to  see ;  and  it  formed  the  radiant  dream  of  my 
young  years,  at  the  time  when  Robinson  Crusoe 
was  my  delight.  These  rosy  illusions,  rich  in  voy- 
ages, were  soon  succeeded  by  dull,  stay-at-home 
reality.  The  jungles  of  India,  the  virgin  forests 
of  Brazil,  the  towering  crests  of  the  Andes,  be- 
loved by  the  condor,  were  reduced,  as  a  field  for 
exploration,  to  a  patch  of  pebbles  enclosed  within 
four  walls. 

Heaven  forfend  that  I  should  complain!  The 
gathering  of  ideas  does  not  necessarily  imply  dis- 
tant expeditions.  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  herbor- 
ised with  the  bunch  of  chick-weed  whereon  he  fed 
his  canary;  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre  discovered  a 
world  on  a  strawberry  plant  that  grew  by  acci- 
dent in  a  corner  of  his  window ;  Xavier  de  Maistre, 
using  an  armchair  by  way  of  post-chaise,  made  one 
of  the  most  famous  of  journeys  around  his  room. 
289 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

This  manner  of  seeing  country  is  within  my 
means,  always  excepting  the  post-chaise,  which  is 
too  difficult  to  drive  through  the  bushes.  I  go 
the  circuit  of  my  enclosure  over  and  over  again, 
a  hundred  times,  by  short  stages;  I  stop  here  and 
I  stop  there;  patiently  I  put  questions  and,  at  long 
intervals,  I  receive  some  scrap  of  a  reply. 

The  smallest  insect  village  has  become  familiar 
to  me :  I  know  each  fruit-branch  where  the  Pray- 
ing Mantis  perches;  each  bush  where  the  pale 
Italian  Cricket  strums  amid  the  calmness  of  the 
summer  nights;  each  downy  plant  scraped  by  the 
Anthidium,  that  maker  of  cotton  bags;  each  cluster 
of  lilac  worked  by  the  Megachile,  the  Leaf-cutter. 

If  cruising  among  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
garden  do  not  suffice,  a  longer  voyage  shows  ample 
profit.  I  double  the  cape  of  the  neighbouring 
hedges  and,  at  a  few  hundred  yards,  enter  into 
relations  with  the  Sacred  Beetle,  the  Capricorn, 
the  Geotrupes,  the  Copris,  the  Decticus,  the 
Cricket,  the  Green  Grasshopper,  in  short  with  a 
host  of  tribes  the  telling  of  whose  story  would  ex- 
haust a  lifetime.  Certainly,  I  have  enough  and  even 
too  much  to  do  with  my  near  neighbours,  without 
leaving  home  to  rove  in  distant  lands. 

Nevertheless,  it  were  well  to  compare  what  hap- 
pens under  our  eyes  with  that  which  happens  else- 
where; it  were  excellent  to  see  how,  in  the  same 
guild  of  workers,  the  fundamental  instinct  varies 
with  climatic  conditions. 

Then  my  longing  to  travel  returns,  vainer  to-day 
than  ever,  unless  one  could  find  a  seat  on  that  car- 
290 


The  Collaborators 

pet  of  which  we  read  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  the 
famous  carpet  whereon  one  had  but  to  sit  to  be 
carried  whithersoever  he  pleased.  O  marvellous 
conveyance,  far  preferable  to  Xavier  de  Maistre's 
post-chaise!  If  I  could  only  find  just  a  little  corner 
on  it,  with  a  return-ticket! 

I  do  find  it.  I  owe  this  unexpected  good  for- 
tune to  a  Brother  of  the  Christian  Schools,  to 
Brother  Judulien,  of  the  La  Salle  College  at  Buenos 
Aires.  His  modesty  would  be  offended  by  the 
praises  which  his  debtor  owes  him.  Let  us  simply 
say  that,  acting  on  my  instructions,  his  eyes  take  the 
place  of  mine.  He  seeks,  finds,  observes,  sends  me 
his  notes  and  his  discoveries.  I  observe,  seek  and 
find  with  him,  by  correspondence. 

It  is  done;  thanks  to  this  first-rate  collaborator, 
I  have  my  seat  on  the  magic  carpet.  Behold  me 
in  the  pampas  of  the  Argentine  Republic,  eager  to 
draw  a  parallel  between  the  industry  of  the  Serig- 
nan  Dung-beetles  and  that  of  their  rivals  in  the 
western  hemisphere.1 

To  close  the  history  of  the  Serignan  her- 
mit by  opening  such  remote  perspectives  is 
not  so  inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  for,  after 
having  obstinately  imprisoned  himself  within 
the  narrow  horizon  of  his  village  all  his  life, 
the  Provencal  recluse  was  beginning  to  be 

1  Souvenirs,   vi.,    p.    70.      The   G\o<w-Worm   and   Other 
Beetles,  chap,  ix.,  "  Dung-beetles  of  the  Pampas."     There 
is  also  mention  of  Brother  Judulien  in  a  long  note  in  vol. 
v.,  p.  131;  The  Glow-Worm  and  Other  Beetles,  p.  238. 
291 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

drawn  out  of  it  by  the  intelligent  zeal  of  cer- 
tain friends,  who  forced  him  to  make  a  tri- 
umphant tour  of  France,  and  we  might  almost 
say  of  the  world. 

The  magic  carpet  on  which  they  made  him 
sit  for  this  magnificent  journey  was,  however, 
by  no  means  a  borrowed  article.  It  was  he 
himself  who  had  provided  it.  It  was  none 
other  than  the  marvellous  series,  so  rich  and 
so  varied,  of  his  entomological  works,  which 
had  only  to  be  known  in  order  to  ensure  for 
the  author  everywhere  the  welcome  which  he 
deserved,  a  truly  enthusiastic  welcome,  and 
the  place  which  was  due  to  him:  one  of  the 
foremost  places  among  our  scientists  and  our 
writers. 


292 


CHAPTER  XIX 

FABRE'S  WRITINGS 

MY  study-table,  the  size  of  a  pocket-handker- 
chief, occupied  on  the  right  by  the  inkstand — 
a  penny  bottle — and  on  the  left  by  the  open  exercise- 
book,  gives  me  just  the  room  which  I  need  to  wield 
the  pen.  I  love  that  little  piece  of  furniture,  one  of 
the  first  acquisitions  of  my  early  married  life.  It 
is  easily  moved  where  you  wish:  in  front  of  the 
window,  when  the  sky  is  cloudy;  into  the  discreet 
light  of  a  corner,  when  the  sun  is  tiresome.  In 
winter  it  allows  you  to  come  close  to  the  hearth, 
where  a  log  is  blazing. 

Poor  little  walnut  board,  I  have  been  faithful  to 
you  for  half  a  century  and  more.  Ink-stained,  cut 
and  scarred  with  the  pen-knife,  you  know  how  to 
lend  your  support  to  my  prose  as  you  once  did 
to  my  equations.  This  variation  in  employment 
leaves  you  indifferent;  your  patient  back  extends 
the  same  welcome  to  my  formulae  of  algebra  and 
the  formulas  of  thought.  I  cannot  boast  this  placid- 
ity; I  find  that  the  change  has  not  increased  my 
peace  of  mind:  the  hunt  for  ideas  troubles  the 
brain  even  more  than  does  the  hunt  for  the  roots 
of  an  equation. 

You  would  never  recognise  me,  little  friend,  if 
293 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

you  could  give  a  glance  at  my  grey  mane.  Where 
is  the  cheerful  face  of  former  days,  bright  with 
enthusiasm  and  hope?  I  have  aged,  I  have  aged. 
And  you,  what  a  falling  off,  since  you  came  to  me 
from  the  dealer's,  gleaming  and  polished  and  smell- 
ing so  good  with  your  beeswax!  Like  your  mas- 
ter, you  have  wrinkles,  often  my  work,  I  admit; 
for  how  many  times,  in  my  impatience,  have  I  not 
dug  my  pen  into  you,  when,  after  its  dip  in  the 
muddy  inkpot,  the  nib  refused  to  write  decently! 

One  of  your  corners  is  broken  off;  the  boards 
are  beginning  to  come  loose.  Inside  you,  I  hear, 
from  time  to  time,  the  plane  of  the  Death-watch, 
who  despoils  old  furniture.  From  year  to  year 
new  galleries  are  excavated,  endangering  your  solid- 
ity. The  old  ones  show  on  the  outside  in  the  shape 
of  tiny  round  holes.  A  stranger  has  seized  upon 
the  latter,  excellent  quarters,  obtained  without 
trouble.  I  see  the  impudent  intruder  run  nimbly 
under  my  elbow  and  penetrate  forthwith  into  the 
tunnel  abandoned  by  the  Death-watch.  She  is 
after  game,  this  slender  huntress,  clad  in  black, 
busy  collecting  Wood-lice  for  her  grubs.  A  whole 
nation  is  devouring  you,  you  old  table;  I  am  writ- 
ing on  a  swarm  of  insects!  No  support  could  be 
more  appropriate  to  my  entomological  notes. 

What  will  become  of  you  when  your  master  is 
gone?  Will  you  be  knocked  down  for  a  franc, 
when  the  family  come  to  apportion  my  poor  spoils? 
Will  you  be  turned  into  a  stand  for  the  pitcher 
beside  the  kitchen-sink?  Will  you  be  the  plank  on 
which  the  cabbages  are  shredded  ?  Or  will  my  chil- 
294 


Fabre's  Writings 

dren,  on  the  contrary,  agree  among  themselves  and 
say: 

"  Let  us  preserve  the  relic.  It  was  where  he 
toiled  so  hard  to  teach  himself  ancl  make  himself 
capable  of  teaching  others;  it  was  where  he  so  long 
consumed  his  strength  to  find  food  for  us  when 
we  were  little.  Let  us  keep  the  sacred  plank." 

I  dare  not  believe  in  such  a  future  for  you.  You 
will  pass  into  strange  hands,  O  my  old  friend ;  you 
will  become  a  bedside-table  laden  with  bowl  after 
bowl  of  linseed-tea,  until,  decrepit,  rickety,  and 
broken-down,  you  are  chopped  up  to  feed  the  flames 
for  a  brief  moment  under  the  simmering  saucepan. 
You  will  vanish  in  smoke  to  join  my  labours  in 
that  other  smoke,  oblivion,  the  ultimate  resting- 
place  of  our  vain  agitations.1 

The  little  table  protests  to-day.  It  has  no 
desire  whatever  to  go  up  in  smoke  with  the 
labour  in  which  it  has  borne  its  part;  it  flat- 
ters itself,  on  the  contrary,  with  the  hope 
that  having  shared  in  the  toil  it  may  also 
have  some  chance  of  sharing  the  honour. 
Rather  than  this  unjust  sentence  of  death,  it 
seems  to  hear  a  summons  to  life: 

"  Let  us  go  back,  O  my  table,  to  the  days 
of  our  youth,  the  days  of  your  French  polish 
and  my  smiling  illusions,"  and  it  stands 
proudly  upon  its  legs,  as  though  to  serve  as 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  184-186.    The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap, 
xiii.,  "Mathematical  Memories:     My  Little  Table." 
295 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

a  support  for  these  pages  destined  to  reca- 
pitulate Fabre's  written  work,  all  that  work 
which  it  has  helped  him  to  compose,  from 
the  first  line  to  the  last. 

Of  the  first  literary  or  scientific  exercises 
of  the  youthful  Fabre  and  the  first  quivers 
of  the  little  table  under  the  nervous,  valiant, 
indefatigable  pen  of  the  young  Carpentras 
schoolmaster,  we  shall  say  nothing,  unless 
that  there  was  really  some  excuse  for  trem- 
bling before  the  audacious  and  strenuous  toil 
of  the  beginning,  and  all  the  exercise-books 
stuffed  with  figures  and  formulae,  diagrams 
and  texts  which  represent  the  solitary  and 
strictly  personal  work  of  preparation  for  two 
bachelor's  degrees,  quickly  followed  by  those 
of  the  licentiate  and  the  doctor.  It  was  an 
anatomical  work,  a  memoir  on  the  reproduc- 
tive organs  of  the  Myriapods,  or  Centipedes, 
that  won  for  Fabre  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Science. 

Fabre's  first  contribution  to  the  Press  was 
a  memoir  on  the  Predatory  Hymenoptera, 
published  in  the  Annales  des  sciences  natu- 
relles.  This  attracted  great  attention  among 
the  masters  of  science.  The  Institute  of 
France  awarded  him  a  prize  for  experimental 
physiology.  Darwin,  then  at  the  height  of 
his  fame,  saluted  him  with  amazed  and 
296 


Fabre's  Writings 

rather  uneasy  admiration.  Leon  Dufour,  the 
patriarch  of  entomology  in  those  days,  wrote 
the  author  a  most  eulogistic  and  encouraging 
letter;  happy  to  have  directed  his  researches 
toward  discoveries  which  he  himself  had  not 
suspected,  the  venerable  scientist  emphati- 
cally exhorted  his  young  friend  to  continue 
his  journey  along  the  path  that  was  opening 
before  him,  a  path  so  full  of  promise. 

Some  time  after  this  he  published  another 
entomological  work  which  was  by  no  means 
calculated  to  disappoint  the  hopes  aroused  by 
the  first  It  dealt  with  an  insect  related  to 
the  Cantharides,  the  Sitaris  humeralis,  and  it 
contained  matter  no  less  unsuspected  and  no 
less  astonishing  than  the  first. 

The  impression  produced  was  all  the  more 
profound  in  that  the  miracle  of  instinct  was 
here  accompanied  by  a  physiological  miracle, 
a  phenomenon  of  metamorphosis  wholly  un- 
known, to  describe  which  Fabre  hit  upon  the 
very  happy  term  hypermetamorphosis.  To 
the  ordinary  series  of  transformations 
through  which  the  insect  passes  in  proceed- 
ing from  the  larval  condition  to  that  of  the 
nymph  and  the  perfect  insect,  this  strange 
little  beast  adds  another  as  a  prelude  to  the 
first,  so  that  the  larva  of  the  Sitaris  passes 
through  four  different  forms,  known  as  the 
297 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

primary  larva,  the  secondary  larva,  the 
pseudo-chrysalis,  and  the  tertiary  larva,  and 
these  resemble  one  another  so  little  that  only 
the  most  sustained  attention  on  the  observ- 
er's part  enables  him  to  believe  the  testi- 
mony of  his  eyes. 

All  these  revelations  keenly  stimulated  the 
curiosity  and  emulation  of  the  specialists,  and 
set  them  "  on  the  track  of  the  history,  hith- 
erto mysterious,  of  the  Cantharides  and  all 
the  insects  resembling  them.  ...  A  number 
of  naturalists,  Beauregard,  Riley,  Valery- 
Mayet,  Kunckel  d'Herculais,  Lichtenstein, 
and  others  began  to  study  the  insects  more  or 
less  adapted  to  the  preparation  of  blisters: 
the  Mylabres,  the  Meloes,  the  Cantharides. 
Lichtenstein  even  carried  the  larvae  of  the 
Cantharides  in  his  watch  pocket,  enclosed  in 
small  glass  tubes,  so  that  he  could  keep  them 
warm  and  observe  them  at  any  moment." 

It  was  by  reading  the  memoir  on  the 
peregrinations  and  metamorphoses  of  the 
Sitaris  that  M.  Perrier  1  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Fabre's  work,  of  which  he  was  to 
become  one  of  the  most  competent  judges  and 
fervent  and  eloquent  admirers.  He  referred 
to  this  essay  last  year  in  his  speech  at  the 
Serignan  jubilee: 

*£.  Perrier,  Revue  hebdomadaire,  October  22,  1910. 
298 


Fabre's  Writings 

It  was  in  1868.  I  had  only  just  left  the  Higher 
Normal  College,  and  was  a  very  youthful  assistant 
naturalist  at  the  Museum.  I  can  still  see  myself 
on  the  box-seat  of  an  omnibus,  crossing  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  with  an  open  book  on  my  knees; 
I  was  reading  the  history  of  the  Sitaris  humeralis; 
I  was  marvelling  at  its  complicated  metamor- 
phoses and  its  ruses  for  making  its  way  into  the 
nest  of  the  solitary  Bee.1 

These  early  essays  were  followed  by  many 
others,  also  published  in  the  Annales  des  sci- 
ences naturelles,  and  were  always  received 
with  the  same  favour  by  all  the  notable  sci- 
entists of  the  time. 

While  he  was  soaring  toward  the  heights, 
and  making  his  way  into  unexplored  regions, 
under  the  astounded  gaze  of  the  most  emi- 
nent authorities,  who  saw  themselves  sud- 
denly equalled  and  even  surpassed,  his  sci- 
entific genius  loved  also  to  look  downwards, 
to  approach  the  beginners,  to  return,  as  it 
were,  to  the  starting-point,  in  order  to  hold 
out  his  hand  to  them,  and  to  trace  out  for 
them,  through  all  the  stages  of  science,  the 
path  that  he  had  opened  up  for  himself  in  the 
face  of  unheard-of  difficulties. 

He  laboured  to  give  them  what  he  himself 
had  felt  the  lack  of  almost  as  much  as  the 

1  Revue  Scientifique,  May  7,  1910. 
2Q9 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

help  of  masters :  the  assistance  of  luminous, 
living  books,  capable  of  teaching  without  fa- 
tigue and  without  tedium.  His  class  books 
are,  in  fact,  models  of  their  kind.  In  them 
you  will  find  no  vague  phraseology,  but  the 
simplest,  most  precise,  yet  most  natural  lan- 
guage; no  idle  excess  of  erudition,  but  the 
most  perfect  lucidity  of  text  as  of  diagram; 
no  dryness,  nothing  commonplace,  but  every- 
where something  picturesque,  original,  and 
full  of  life,  giving  charm  and  relief  to  all 
that  is  learned;  and  above  all  the  constant 
care  never  to  isolate  oneself  from  life,  to 
keep  in  touch  with  reality,  by  leading  the 
youthful  mind  from  the  spectacles  which  are 
most  familiar  to  it  to  the  conceptions  of  sci- 
ence and  from  these  to  such  of  their  appli- 
cations as  are  most  usual  and  most  familiar. 
To  sum  up,  a  rare  talent  for  simply  and 
clearly  expounding  the  most  difficult  theories 
in  such  a  way  as  to  render  them  accessible  to 
the  youngest  minds;  a  wonderful  power  of 
capturing  the  attention  from  all  sides,  of 
breaking  down  the  water-tight  partition 
which  too  often  exists  between  the  mind  and 
the  heart,  between  science  and  life,  between 
theory  and  practice:  such  are  the  essential 
characteristics  which  earned  Fabre  the  title 
of  *'  the  incomparable  populariser." 
300 


Fabre's  Writings 

About  1866  and  1867,  at  the  Normal  College  of 
Rodez,  one  of  our  professors  used  to  read  to  us 
and  teach  us  to  admire  certain  little  books  by  our 
as  yet  but  little  known  compatriot,  J.  H.  Fabre, 
who  was  born  at  Saint-Leons,  so  he  told  us,  and 
had  graduated  from  the  Normal  College  of  Avig- 
non. 

Such  is  the  information  recently  given  us 
by  M.  Frangois  Fabie,  as  "  a  detail  that 
might  perhaps  give  us  pleasure,  and  which 
proves,  in  any  case,  that  not  all  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  Rouergue,  as  was  mistakenly 
said  of  late,  were  ignorant  of  the  name, 
origin,  and  talent  of  J.  H.  Fabre."  x 

1  Our  eminent  compatriot  will  forgive  the  writer  for 
quoting  the  following  passage  from  a  letter  of  his,  which 
so  fully  expresses  both  his  admiration  for  our  hero  and 
his  profound  affection  for  the  land  of  our  fathers:  "For 
the  second  time,  on  reading  in  the  Journal  d'Aveyron  your 
comprehensive  and  loving  study  of  the  life  and  work 
of  your  illustrious  namesake,  I  was  agreeably  surprised 
to  see  that  you  compared  our  characters  and  our  work. 
This  comparison  is  extremely  flattering  to  me,  and  I 
thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  ...  It  is  in- 
deed a  somewhat  curious  thing  that  two  Rouergats  should 
have  conceived  the  idea  of  celebrating  the  Animals;  that 
both  should  have  been  led  by  their  destiny  to  Provence; 
that  both  should  have  had  the  course  of  their  lives  af- 
fected by  the  intervention  of  Duruy,  etc.  It  is  true  that 
one  must  not  push  these  analogies  too  far.  Duruy  merely 
advanced  me  from  the  Normal  College  of  Rodez  to  that 
of  Cluny;  and  in  so  doing,  alas!  he  uprooted  me.  .  .  . 
As  for  the  Animals,  what  are  the  poetic  fancies  which 
I  have  dedicated  to  them  beside  the  masterly  essays  of 
the  man  who  has  been  called  '  the  Homer  of  the  in- 
sects!'" M.  Fabie  does  not  dispute,  any  more  than  we 
ourselves,  that  Fabre's  fame  qune  legitimately  belongs 
301 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

We  are,  indeed,  glad  to  think  that  if  he 
was  unduly  overlooked  at  a  later  time,  he 
was  at  least  known  and  admired  at  an  early 
period  in  Aveyron,  and  that  as  early  as  1866 
his  class  books  were  especially  recommended 
to  the  attention  of  our  young  schoolmasters 
at  the  Normal  College  of  Rodez.  They 
could  have  had  none  better  conceived  or  com- 
piled. Would  to  heaven  our  public  school- 
masters had  always  been  as  happily  inspired 
or  as  well  advised  in  the  choice  of  their  text- 
books!  Would  to  heaven  that,  instead  of 
the  dismal  and  misleading  suggestions  of  ma- 
terialism and  impiety,  there  were  still  a  place 
in  the  manuals  of  science,  put  in  the  hands 
of  our  children,  for  reflections  as  sane  and  as 
lofty  as  these.  "  By  their  practical  side  the 
sciences  verge  upon  agriculture,  medicine,  and 
industry;  but  they  have  before  all  a  moral 
advantage  which  is  not  shared  in  the  same 
degree  by  any  other  branch  of  human  knowl- 
edge :  in  that  by  giving  us  a  knowledge  of  the 
created  universe  they  uplift  the  soul  and 
nourish  the  mind  with  noble  and  salutary 
thoughts."  * 

to  Provence,  which  has  become  his  second  country;  he 
merely  regrets  that  we  in  our  "  loyal  kingdom  "  have  too 
long  allowed  our  good  friends  of  the  Empire  to  monop- 
olise him. 

1  Cours  elementaire  d'hisloire  naturelle:  Zoologie,  p.  i, 
5th  edition. 

302 


Fabre's  Writings 

The  study  of  the  heavenly  bodies  in  par- 
ticular has  this  inestimable  result:  "  The 
things  that  we  are  told  by  stellar  astronomy 
overwhelm  the  understanding  and  leave  no 
room  in  our  minds  except  for  an  impulse  of 
religious  wonder  at  the  author  of  these  mar- 
vels, the  God  whose  unlimited  power  has  peo- 
pled the  abysses  of  space  with  immeasurable 
heaps  of  suns."  x  But  the  divine  work  "  per- 
haps appears  more  marvellous  still  in  the 
infinity  of  littleness  than  in  the  infinity  of  mag- 
nitude: Magnus  in  magnisf  it  has  been  said 
of  God,  maximus  in  minimis."  2  This  fine 
saying  is  verified  and  more  or  less  explicitly 
confirmed  in  a  thousand  passages  of  the 
Souvenirs. 

Fabre's  works  of  popularisation  are  very 
numerous:  they  include  no  less  than  seventy 
to  eighty  volumes;  they  embrace  all  the  ele- 
ments of  the  sciences  learned  and  taught  by 
the  author:  arithmetic,  algebra,  geometry, 
trigonometry,  mechanics,  physics,  chemistry, 
etc.;  but  their  principal  aim  was  to  teach  the 
natural  sciences,  which  furnish  the  material  of 
more  than  fifty  volumes  intended  for  the 
primary  or  secondary  degree  of  education. 

1  Cours  elementaire  d'Astronomie,   p.   272,   7th  edition. 

2  Op.   cit.,  "  Avertissement  ou  Avant-Propos  du  Direc- 
teur    de    la    collection,    couronnee    par    1'Academie    fran- 
c,aise." 

303 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

In  his  favourite  domain  of  the  natural  sci- 
ences, as  in  that  of  the  other  sciences,  the 
practical  tendency  of  his  teaching  was  by 
preference  directed  toward  agricultural  ap- 
plications, as  is  shown  by  the  very  titles  of 
many  of  his  books :  Elements  usuels  des  sci- 
ences physiques  et  naturelles,  avec  applica- 
tions a  I  hygiene  et  a  I' agriculture — Le  Livre 
des  Champs — Les  Auxiliaires — Les  Rava- 
geurs — Arithmetique  agricole — Chimie  agri- 
cole:  indeed  it  was  with  the  last  volume  that 
he  inaugurated  his  series  of  initiatory  text- 
books. For  the  use  of  young  girls  and  fu- 
ture housewives,  he  published  books  on  Le 
Menage,  Hygiene  and  Economie  domes- 
tique. 

And  all  these  little  books  are  presented 
in  a  picturesque  and  attractive  form.  The 
very  titles  have  nothing  austere  about  them: 
Entretien  de  I'oncle  Paul  avec  ses  neveux 
sur  les  choses  d'agriculture — Chimie  de 
I'oncle  Paul.  There  is  also  The  Livre  de 
Maitre  Paul,  the  Histoire  des  Betes,  the 
Leqons  des  choses,  the  Livre  d'Histoires 
and  the  Livre  des  Champs.  Under  different 
titles  the  other  volumes  evoke,  like  these, 
a  sort  of  family  atmosphere;  they  display 
the  same  concrete  style  of  narrative  and  the 
same  lifelike  charm  of  dialogue. 
304 


Fabre's  Writings 

Evidently  Fabre  was  not  one  of  these 
whose  "  life  was  strangled,"  and  his  initia- 
tive stifled  by  the  springes  of  University 
methods  and  the  programmes  beloved  of 
the  bureaucrats.  On  every  side  there  was 
little  but  disdain  for  animals  and  plants; 
and  it  was  these  above  all  that  he  strove  to 
popularise.  When  they  are  studied,  it  is 
only  to  dissect  them  or  reduce  them  to  ab- 
stract formulae ;  but  he  considers  them  rather 
as  they  are  in  themselves  and  in  their  re- 
lations with  human  life.  And  while  others 
speak  of  them  as  dead  objects  or  as  indif- 
ferent objects,  to  indifferent  readers,  Fabre 
speaks  of  them  with  sympathy  and  feeling, 
with  the  tenderness  and  geniality  of  an 
uncle  speaking  to  his  nephews,  and  he  excels 
in  communicating  to  his  hearers  the  sacred 
fire  which  inspires  him — the  passionate  love 
which  he  feels  for  all  natural  things. 

It  was  Fabre's  fine  independence  that 
made  him  a  pioneer.  Certain  of  his  manuals 
may  no  longer  be  sufficiently  up  to  date,  but 
his  methods  and  his  tendencies  are  precisely 
those  that  best  respond  to  the  needs  and 
aspirations  of  the  present  time.  For  a  wave 
of  serious  public  opinion  is  revealing  itself 
in  favour*  of  a.  renewal  of  our  public 
education. 

305 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

A  time  will  come,  let  us  hope,  when  the 
schools  will  be  less  artificial  and  removed 
from  real  life,  and  will  no  longer  systemati- 
cally ignore  religion,  the  family,  the  country 
and  the  vocation  of  the  pupils.  When  that 
time  comes,  the  schoolmasters  will  turn 
again  to  the  classic  Fabre  handbooks,  or  at 
all  events  to  books  modelled  upon  his,  in 
order  to  teach  the  little  peasant  boys  to  love 
their  fields,  their  beasts,  their  agricultural 
and  pastoral  labours;  to  teach  them  also 
sometimes  to  lift  their  heads  from  the  fur- 
rows in  order  to  look  up  at  the  returning 
stars. 

Begun  in  1862  by  the  publication  of  a 
book  on  agricultural  chemistry,  Fabre's  work 
of  popularisation  was  continued  until  the 
appearance  in  1879  of  his  first  volume  of 
the  Souvenirs.  It  forms  as  it  were  a  preface 
to  the  great  entomological  masterpiece. 
Thanks  to  the  deserved  success  of  the  series, 
rather  than  to  his  wretched  emoluments  as 
professor,  he  achieved  the  security  and  inde- 
pendence necessary  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  mission.  His  class-books  were  the 
ransom  that  set  him  free.  They  enabled 
him  to  leave  the  town  and  escape  into  the 
fields.  They  even  enabled  him  to  realise 
his  dream  of  a  solitary  corner  of  the  earth 
306 


Fabre's  Writings 

and  a  life  of  leisure  wholly  dedicated  to  the 
patient  and  disinterested  study  of  his  beloved 
insects. 

From  another  point  of  view  this  long 
and  patient  effort  of  scientific  popularisa- 
tion and  intense  literary  production  was  not 
without  its  results  as  regard  his  later  work. 
It  enabled  him  to  obtain  a  mastery  of  his 
medium,  to  exercise  his  faculty  of  expression 
and  his  mind,  to  vary  and  mature  his  obser- 
vations, and  finally  to  realise  that  tour  de 
force  of  writing,  for  specialists,  books  that 
he  who  runs  may  read,  and  of  performing 
the  miracle  of  arousing  the  enthusiasm  of 
men  of  letters  for  books  that  compel  the 
admiration  of  scientists,  and  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  scientists  to  books  that  de- 
light the  man  of  letters. 

The  brilliance,  colour,  and  vitality  which 
enhance  without  ever  diminishing  the  high 
scientific  value  of  his  Souvenirs  are  due,  no 
doubt,  to  his  native  qualities,  to  the  limpid 
and  harmonious  Gallic  genius  of  which  he 
affords  so  admirable  a  type;  he  owes  them 
also,  as  we  have  said,  to  all  those  tiny  lives, 
so  vibrant  with  diligence,  and  so  picturesque, 
whose  lights  and  shades  and  nai've  emotions 
seem  to  have  found  their  way  into  his  own 
heart,  into  his  style;  but  he  owes  them  still 
307 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

more  to  his  young  friends,  the  primary 
school-children,  to  the  pains  which  he  took, 
the  ingenuity  which  he  expended  in  bringing 
within  the  grasp  of  the  child's  mind,  in  im- 
pressing upon  his  imagination  and  sensibility 
as  well  as  his  understanding,  the  creatures 
and  the  doings  of  the  living  world. 

As  we  have  recorded,  it  was  only  in  1879 
that  Fabre  inaugurated  his  great  and  im- 
mortal collection  of  Souvenirs  entomolo- 
giques. 

From  this  same  year  dates  the  acquisi- 
tion, so  greatly  desired,  of  the  open-air 
laboratory  and  his  installation  in  the 
cherished  solitude  of  Serignan,  where  he  was 
able  to  give  free  play  to  his  entomological 
tastes,  and  to  continue  to  add  to  the 
Souvenirs. 

Henri  Fabre  was  then  fifty-five  years  of 
age,  and  apparently  broken  by  fatigue  and 
suffering.  This  did  not  prevent  him  from 
undertaking  and  accomplishing  a  task  in 
which  we  know  not  which  to  admire  the 
most:  the  acuteness  of  observation  or  the 
vigour  of  thought,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  in- 
vestigator or  the  animation  of  the  writer. 
Here  is  a  wonderful  example  to  all  those 
whom  advancing  age  and  life  have  already 
cruelly  bruised;  to  all  those  who  might  be 
308 


Fabre's  Writings 

tempted  to  give  up  or  to  flinch  under  the 
burden  of  grief  or  disappointment,  instead 
of  listening  to  the  voice  of  their  talents,  the 
appeal  of  their  friends,  the  summons  of  God 
Himself  to  generous  and  devoted  action, 
and  to  the  great  harvest  of  souls  and  ideas. 

For  forty  years  [says  Fabre]  I  have  struggled 
with  unshakable  courage  against  the  sordid  mis- 
eries of  life ;  and  the  corner  of  earth  I  have  dreamed 
of  has  come  at  last. 

The  wish  is  realised.  It  is  a  little  late,  O  my 
pretty  insects!  I  greatly  fear  that  the  peach  is  of- 
fered to  me  when  I  am  beginning  to  have  no  teeth 
wherewith  to  eat  it.  Yes,  it  is  a  little  late;  the 
wide  horizons  of  the  outset  have  shrunk  into  a  low 
and  stifling  canopy,  more  and  more  straitened  day 
by  day.  Regretting  nothing  in  the  past,  save  those 
whom  I  have  lost;  regretting  nothing,  not  even 
my  first  youth ;  hoping  nothing  either,  I  have 
reached  the  point  at  which,  worn  out  by  the  experi- 
ence of  things,  we  ask  ourselves  if  life  be  worth 
the  living.1 

In  the  touching,  desolate  accents  of  these 
lives  we  may,  no  doubt,  hear  the  echoes  of 
a  whole  lifetime  of  toil  and  trial;  but  above 
all  they  express  the  cruel  grief  which  had 
just  wrung  the  kindly,  tender  heart  of  the 
great  scientist.  He  was  still  suffering  from 

1  Souvenirs,  II.,  p.  3.  The  Life  of  the  Fly,  chap,  i., 
"  The  Harmas." 

309 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  blow  dealt  him  by  the  death  of  his  be- 
loved son  Jules  at  the  moment  of  writing 
these  lines  on  the  first  page  of  the  second 
volume  of  the  Souvenirs,  piously  dedicated 
to  the  memory  of  the  lost  child. 

Happily  he  found  in  his  "  insuperable 
faith  in  the  Beyond  "  1  the  courage  to  over- 
come his  grief  and  in  his  "  love  of  scientific 
truth  "  the  possibility  of  taking  up  his  life 
again  and  resuming  his  work. 

Amid  the  ruins  that  surround  me,  one  strip  of 
wall  remains  standing,  immovable  upon  its  solid 
base;  my  passion  for  scientific  youth.  Is  that 
enough,  O  my  busy  insects,  to  enable  me  to  add  yet 
a  few  seemly  pages  to  your  history?  Will  my 
strength  not  cheat  my  good  intentions?  Why,  in- 
deed, did  I  forsake  you  so  long?  Friends  have  re- 
proached me  for  it.  Ah,  tell  them,  tell  those  friends, 
who  are  yours  as  well  as  mine,  tell  them  that  it 
was  not  forgetfulness  on  my  part,  not  weariness, 
nor  neglect:  I  thought  of  you;  I  was  convinced 
that  the  Cerceris'  cave  had  more  fair  secrets  to 
reveal  to  us,  that  the  chase  of  the  Sphex  held  fresh 
surprises  in  store.  But  time  failed  me;  I  was 
alone,  deserted,  struggling  against  misfortune.  Be- 
fore philosophising,  one  had  to  live.  Tell  them 
that;  and  they  will  pardon  me.2 

1  Dedication  of  vol.  n.  of  the  Souvenirs. 

2  Souvenirs,  n.,   p.  4.      The  Life   of  the  Fly,  chap,   i., 
"The  Harmas." 

310 


Fabre's  Writings 

From  the  very  beginning  of  his  great  en- 
tomological work  Fabre  sought  to  free 
himself  from  another  reproach,  which 
wounded  him  to  the  quick,  because  it  struck 
at  his  fidelity  to  his  chosen  study,  and,  what 
is  more,  to  scientific  truth : 

Others  again  have  reproached  me  with  my  style, 
which  has  not  the  solemnity,  nay,  better,  the  dry- 
ness  of  the  schools.  They  fear  lest  a  page  that  is 
read  without  fatigue  should  not  always  be  the  ex- 
pression of  the  truth.  Were  I  to  take  their  word 
for  it,  we  are  profound  only  on  condition  of  being 
obscure.  Come  here,  one  and  all  of  you — you,  the 
sting-bearers,  and  you,  the  wing-cased  armour-clads 
— take  up  my  defence  and  bear  witness  in  my  fa- 
vour. Tell  of  the  intimate  terms  on  which  I  live 
with  you,  of  the  patience  with  which  I  observe  you, 
of  the  care  with  which  I  record  your  actions.  Your 
evidence  is  unanimous:  yes,  my  pages,  though  they 
bristle  not  with  hollow  formulae  nor  learned  smat- 
terings, are  the  exact  narrative  of  facts  observed, 
neither  more  nor  less;  and  whoso  cares  to  question 
you  in  his  turn  will  obtain  the  same  replies. 

And  then,  my  dear  insects,  if  you  cannot  convince 
those  good  people,  because  you  do  not  carry  the 
weight  of  tedium,  I,  in  my  turn,  will  say  to  them: 

"  You  rip  up  the  animal  and  I  study  it  alive;  you 
turn  it  into  an  object  of  horror  and  pity,  whereas  I 
cause  it  to  be  loved ;  you  labour  in  a  torture-cham- 
ber and  dissecting-room,  I  make  my  observations 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

under  the  blue  sky,  to  the  song  of  the  Cicadas ; l 
you  subject  cell  and  protoplasm  to  chemical  tests, 
I  study  instinct  in  its  loftiest  manifestations;  you 
pry  into  death,  I  pry  into  life. 

Our  author's  strong  personality  is  re- 
vealed no  less  in  the  bulk  of  his  work  than 
in  this  declaration  of  principles  which  might 
serve  as  a  prologue  to  the  latter. 

"With  the  originality  of  genius  he  is 
from  the  first  totally  opposed  to  the  point 
of  view  of  those  naturalists  who  are  fasci- 
nated by  morphology  and  anatomy."  2  He 
believes  that  the  characteristics  of  life  are 
to  be  found  in  life  itself,  and  that  if  we  wish 
truly  to  know  the  insect,  nothing  will  help 
us  so  much  as  seeing  it  at  work.  "  Mere 
common  sense,  the  reader  will  say,  yet  it  is 
by  no  means  common  ";  and  it  usually  hap- 
pens that  writers  "forget  to  take  perform- 
ance into  their  reckoning  when  they  are 
describing  life."  3 

To  study  living  entomology,  that  is,  to 
study  the  insect  living  its  life  and  in  the 

1  The  Cicada  is  the  Cigale,  an  insect  akin  to  the  Grass- 
hopper and  found  more  particularly  in  the  south  of 
France.  Cf.  Social  Life  in  the  Insect  World,  chaps. 
i.-iv.,  and  The  Life  of  the  Grasshopper,  chaps.  i.-v. — 
A.  T.  DE  M. 

2F.  Marguet,  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  December  15, 
1910. 

3  Ibid. 

312 


Fabre's  Writings 

highest  manifestations  of  its  life,  in  its  in- 
stincts and  its  habits,  in  its  aptitudes  and  its 
passions,  in  a  word,  in  its  psychic  faculties; 
to  replace  the  dominant  standpoint  of  mor- 
phology and  physiology  by  the  standpoint 
of  biology  and  psychology;  such  is  the  es- 
sential programme  of  the  writer  of  the 
Souvenirs. 

And  he  adheres  to  it  all  the  more  strictly 
the  more  he  sees  it  neglected  by  those  about 
him,  judging  it  to  be  of  still  greater  im- 
portance for  one  who  is  seeking  to  know  the 
insect,  more  advantageous  to  practice  and 
speculation,  more  essential  to  the  open-air 
life  and  the  most  abstruse  inquiries  of  the 
human  mind.  By  curiously  interrogating  the 
life  of  the  insects  one  may  render  inestimable 
services  to  agriculture,  as  Pasteur  did  in  his 
investigation  of  serici-culture;  one  may  also 
"furnish  general  psychology  with  data  of 
inestimable  value,"  and  this  in  particular 
was  what  he  proposed  to  do.  M.  Fabre's 
restless  mind  is  for  ever  haunted  by  the  most 
abstruse  problems,  which,  indicated  here  and 
there,  enable  us  to  understand  the  motives 
that  urge  him  on.  With  reference  to  these 
the  insect  is  no  longer  an  end:  it  becomes  a 
means.  Above  all,  M.  Fabre  wishes  to 
define  instinct;  to  establish  the  line  of  de- 
313 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

marcation  which  divides  it  from  intelligence, 
and  to  demonstrate  whether  human  reason 
is  an  irreducible  faculty  or  whether  it  is  only 
a  degree  higher  on  a  scale  whose  base  de- 
scends into  the  depths  of  animality.  More 
generally  he  propounds  the  question  of  the 
identity  or  the  difference  between  the  animal 
mind  and  the  human.  He  also  seeks  to 
examine  the  problem  of  evolution;  finally, 
to  discover  whether  geometry  rules  over  all 
things,  and  whether  it  tells  us  of  a  Universal 
Geometer,  or  whether  "  the  strictly  beauti- 
ful, the  domain  of  reason,  that  is,  order,  is 
the  inevitable  result  of  a  blind  mechanism."  * 

And  to  tell  the  whole  story  in  a  few 
words,  the  essential  object,  the  general 
impulse  of  this  curious  and  powerful 
m  nd,  which  refuses  to  divide  science  from 
philosophy,  is  to  consider  the  insect,  how  it 
lives;  to  note  its  actions  and  its  movements; 
to  reach  its  inner  from  its  outer  life;  its  in- 
ward impulse  from  its  external  action;  and 
then  to  climb  upwards  from  the  insect  to 
man  and  from  man  to  God. 

Fabre  never  attempts  to  solve  the  prob- 
lems which  he  propounds  a  priori.  Before 
thinking  as  a  philosopher  he  observes  as  a 
scientist.  His  method  is  strictly  experimen- 

1F.  Marguet,  op.  cit. 

314 


Fabre's  Writings 

tal.  "  To  observe  the  crude  fact,  to  record 
it,  then  to  ask  what  conclusion  may  be  based 
upon  this  solid  foundation,  such  is  M. 
Fabre's  only  rule;  and  if  we  oppose  him  with 
arguments  he  demands  observations."  x 

"See  first;  you  can  argue  afterwards." 
"The  precise  facts  are  alone  worthy  of 
science.  They  cast  premature  theories  into 
oblivion." 

He  always  makes  direct  for  the  facts  as 
Nature  presents  them.  The  books  fail  him 
or  are  not  to  his  liking.  Most  of  them  dis- 
sect the  insect;  he  wants  it  alive  and  acting. 
The  best  contain  but  the  shadow  of  life;  he 
prefers  life  itself.  If  he  happens  to  quote 
them,  it  is  usually  to  deplore  their  deficien- 
cies or  to  correct  their  errors,  or  perhaps 
to  do  homage  to  a  precursor  or  a  rival,  but 
not  to  borrow  from  them  the  history  of  an 
insect. 

This  history  he  wishes  to  take  from  life, 
and  he  refuses  to  write  except  according  to 
Nature  and  the  data  provided  by  the  living 
subject.  His  narratives  are  always  the  re- 
sult of  strictly  conscientious  and  objective 
inquiries:  he  records  nothing  that  he  has  not 
seen,  and  if  he  has  sometimes  heightened 
his  pictures  by  somewhat  vivid  hues,  he  has 

1  F.  Marguet,  op.  cit. 

315 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

only  given  his  style  the  relief  and  the  colour 
of  his  subject.  The  danger  of  such  scien- 
tific records  when  they  are  written  by  a  man 
of  letters  and  a  poet  like  Fabre  into  the 
bargain  is  that  there  is  a  danger  of  their 
being  written  with  more  art  than  exactitude. 
And  it  is  apparently  this  that  causes  so  many 
scientists  to  distrust  science  that  also  claims 
to  be  literature.  Fabre>  was  not  always  im- 
mune from  this  species  of  discredit  which  the 
writer  may  so  easily  cast  upon  the  scientist. 
But  this  unjust  accusation  was  long  ago  with- 
drawn, and  to-day  all  are  agreed  as  to  the 
absolute  truthfulness  of  his  portraits  and  his 
records.  He  has  talent  and  imagination,  it 
is  true,  but  he  has  applied  his  talent  to  the 
sincere  investigation  of  the  facts,  and  his 
imagination  only  to  achieve  the  more  com- 
plete and  faithful  expression  of  the  reality. 
A  great  thinker  once  uttered  this  profound 
saying:  "  Things  are  perceived  in  their  truth 
only  when  they  are  perceived  in  their 
poetry."  This  saying  might  serve  as  a  motto 
for  the  whole  of  Fabre's  entomological 
work. 

To  collect  the  data  which  he  requires  for 
the  foundation  of  his  philosophical  struc- 
tures, Fabre  is  not  content  with  observing 
the  insect  as  it  lives  and  labours  when  left  to 


Fabre's  Writings 

itself,  writing  down,  so  to  speak,  at  its  dic- 
tation the  data  which  it  deigns  to  give  him 
as  it  would  give  them  to  any  one  who  pos- 
sessed the  same  patience  and  the  same  gift 
for  observation.  After  these  first  over- 
tures, he  seeks  more  confidential  informa- 
tion; to  obtain  this  he  inverts  the  parts  played 
by  observer  and  insect;  from  being  passive 
he  becomes  active;  he  provokes  and  interro- 
gates, and  by  different  experiments,  often  of 
wonderful  ingenuity,  he  enables  and  even  com- 
pels the  insect  to  confide  to  him  what  it  would 
never  have  divulged  in  the  normal  course  of 
its  life  and  occupations.  Fabre  is  the  first 
to  think  of  introducing  this  kind  of  artificial 
observation,  which  he  calls  experiment,  into 
the  study  of  the  animal  "  soul." 

To  practise  it  more  readily,  he  needs  the 
insect  close  within  his  reach;  more  than  that, 
he  needs  it  under  his  hand,  at  his  discretion, 
so  to  say.  Neither  the  great  museum  of  the 
fields  nor  the  place  of  observation  where  the 
insects  "  roam  at  will  amid  the  thyme  and 
lavender  "  quite  answers  the  requirements  of 
this  part  of  his  programme.  So  at  various 
points  of  the  harmas  all  those  appliances 
which  we  have  already  described  were  set  up, 
"  rustic  achievements,  clumsy  combinations 
of  trivial  things."  In  addition  to  these  ap- 
317 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

pliances  in  the  open  air,  there  are  those  inside 
the  house:  some  are  installed  in  the  study, 
so  that  the  experimenter  "  can  see  his  insects 
working  on  the  very  table  upon  which  he  is 
writing  their  history  " ; *  others  are  arranged 
in  a  separate  room  known  as  the  "  animal 
laboratory." 

It  is  a  great,  silent,  isolated  room,  brilliantly 
lighted  by  two  windows  facing  south,  upon  the 
garden,  one  of  which  at  least  is  always  open  that 
the  insects  may  come  and  go  at  liberty.  .  .  .  The 
middle  of  the  room  is  entirely  occupied  by  a  great 
table  of  walnut-wood,  on  which  are  arranged  bot- 
tles, test-tubes,  and  old  sardine  boxes,  which  Fabre 
employs  in  order  to  watch  the  evolution  of  a  thou- 
sand nameless  or  doubtful  eggs,  to  observe  the  la- 
bours of  their  larvae,  the  creation  and  hatching  of 
cocoons,  and  the  little  miracles  of  metamorphosis, 
after  a  germination  more  wonderful  than  that  of 
the  acorn  which  makes  the  oak. 

Covers  of  metallic  gauze  resting  on  earthenware 
saucers  full  of  sand,  a  few  carboys  and  flower-pots 
or  sweetmeat  jars  closed  with  a  square  of  glass; 
these  serve  for  observation  or  experimental  cages  in 
which  the  progress  and  the  actions  of  these  tiny, 
living  machines  can  be  investigated.2 

Fabre  reveals  a  consummate  skill  in  this 
difficult  and  delicate  art  of  experimentation 

1  Souvenirs,  iv.,  p.  222. 

2  Fabre,  Poet  of  Science,  G.  V.  Legros,  pp.  147,  149. 

318 


Fabre's  Writings 

and  inducing  the  insect  to  speak.  The 
smallest  incident,  insignificant  to  a  mind  less 
alert  than  his,  suggests  further  questions  or 
gives  rise  to  sudden  intuitions  and  precon- 
ceived ideas  which  are  immediately  sub- 
jected to  the  test  of  experiment.  But  it  is 
not  enough  to  question  the  insect;  one  must 
understand  its  replies;  it  is  not  enough  to 
collect  or  even  to  provoke  data.  One  must 
know  how  to  interpret  them. 

And  here  truly  we  come  to  the  prodigy;  for  his 
sympathy  for  animals  gives  M.  Fabre  a  sort  of 
special  sense,  which  enables  him  to  grasp  the  mean- 
ing of  its  actions,  as  though  there  were  between 
it  and  himself  some  actual  means  of  communica- 
tion, something  in  the  nature  of  a  language.1 

But  there  is  something  even  more  remark- 
able than  this1  penetration  and  certainty  of 
analysis;  it  is  the  prudence  with  which  he 
goes  forward  step  by  step,  without  leaving 
anything  vague  or  doubtful;  the  reserve  with 
which  he  pronounces  upon  all  that  goes 
beyond  the  obvious  meaning  of  the  facts;  the 
frankness  and  modesty  with  which  he  ad- 
mits that  he  hesitates  or  does  not  know.  It 
often  happens  that  this  scrupulous  spirit  leads 

1  F.  Marguet,  op.  cit. 

319 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

to  doubt.  "  The  more  1  observe  and  experi- 
ment, the  more  I  feel  rising  before  me,  in  the 
cloudy  blackness  of  the  possible,  a  vast  note 
of  interrogation."  We  might  even  find  that 
on  certain  occasions  the  fear  of  going  astray 
has  caused  him  to  limit  to  excess  the  range 
of  his  interpretation.  But  this  is  done  only 
to  give  greater  weight  to  his  assertions, 
wherever  they  are  expressed  firmly  and  with 
quiet  assurance.  In  short,  there  is  reason 
to  subscribe  to  the  flattering  judgment  of 
his  first  biographer,  who  sees  in  the  Souve- 
nirs not  only  the  most  wonderful  entomo- 
logical repertory,  but  a  true  "  essay  upon 
method,"  which  should  be  read  by  every 
naturalist,  and  the  most  interesting,  instruc- 
tive, familiar,  and  delightful  course  of  train- 
ing that  has  ever  been  known."  1 

The  most  interesting,  instructive,  and  de- 
lightful course  of  training:  his  books  are 
this,  not  only  in  virtue  of  the  writer's 
method  and  point  of  view,  but  in  virtue  of 
his  language.  For  the  living  scenes  of  the 
Souvenirs,  as  well  as  the  interpretations  in- 
terspersed between  them,  are  expressed  in 
words  so  simple  and  so  well  chosen  that 

1  Fabre,  Poet  of  Science,  G.  V.  Legros,  translated  by 
Bernard  Miall,  pp.  159-160. 

320 


Fabre's  Writings 

they  are  realised  without  effort  and  in  the 
most  striking  relief  in  the  reader's  mind  and 
imagination. 

Fabre  hates  to  see  science  make  use  of 
pedantic  and  pseudo-scholastic  terminology. 
Apart  from  the  fact  that  it  may  repel  the 
reader,  all  this  idle  apparatus  of  obscurity 
serves  only  too  often  to  mask  error  or  vague- 
ness of  thought. 

By  seasoning  the  matter  with  indigestible  terms, 
useful  for  dissimulating  vagueness  of  thought,  one 
might  represent  the  Cione  as  a  superb  example  of 
the  change  brought  about  by  the  centuries  in  the 
habits  of  an  insect.  It  would  be  very  scientific, 
but  would  it-  be  very  clear?  I  doubt  it.  When 
my  eyes  fall  upon  a  page  bristling  with  barbarous 
locutions,  supposedly  scientific,  I  say  to  myself: 
"  Take  care !  The  author  does  not  properly  un- 
derstand what  he  is  saying,  or  he  would  have  found, 
in  the  vocabulary  which  so  many  clever  minds  have 
hammered  out,  some  means  of  clearly  stating  his 
thought." 

Boileau,  who  is  denied  the  poetic  afflatus,  but 
who  certainly  possessed  common  sense,  and  plenty 
of  it,  informs  us: 

"  Ce  que  Von  confoit  blen  s'enonce  clairement." 
(That  which  is  clearly  grasped  is  plainly  said.) 

"  Just  so,  Nicolas !     Yes,  clearness,  always  clear- 
ness.   He  calls  a  cat  a  cat.    Let  us  do  the  same :  let 
321 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

us  call  gibberish  a  most  learned  prose,  to  afford  a 
pretext  for  repeating  Voltaire's  witty  remark : 
'  When  the  listener  does  not  understand  and  the 
speaker  himself  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying, 
that  is  metaphysics.'  Let  us  add :  '  And  abstruse 
science.'  " 

My  conviction  is  that  we  can  say  excellent  things 
without  using  a  barbarous  vocabulary.  Lucidity 
is  the  sovereign  politeness  of  the  writer.  I  do  my 
best  to  achieve  it.1 

Thanks  to  his  love  of  lucidity  and  sim- 
plicity, as  much  as  to  his  frank  and  modest 
spirit,  he  had  a  horror  of  verbal  snobbery 
and  juggling  with  pretentious  words.  Offi- 
cial science  itself,  and,  as  he  says  bluntly, 
"  official  jargon,"  2  find  no  more  favour  in 
his  eyes  than  the  sins  of  incidental  writers. 

As  a  boy  [writes  Fabre]  I  was  always  an  ardent 
reader ;  but  the  refinements  of  a  well-balanced  style 
hardly  interested  me:  I  did  not  understand  them. 
A  good  deal  later,  when  close  upon  fifteen,  I  began 
vaguely  to  see  that  words  have  a  physiognomy  of 
their  own.  Some  pleased  me  better  than  others 
by  the  distinctness  of  their  meaning  and  the  reso- 
nance of  their  rhythm;  they  produced  a  clearer 
image  in  my  mind ;  after  their  fashion,  they  gave 
me  a  picture  of  the  objects  described.  Coloured 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  pp.  100,  101. 
?  Souvenirs,  VI.,  p.  296. 

322 


Fabre's  Writings 

by  its  adjective  and  vivified  by  its  verb,  the  name 
became  a  living  reality:  what  it  said  I  saw.  And 
thus,  gradually,  was  the  magic  of  words  revealed 
to  me,  when  the  chances  of  my  undirected  reading 
placed  a  few  easy  standard  pages  in  my  way.1 

The  magic  of  words!  He  has  done  more 
than  discover  it  in  the  pages  of  other  writers. 
He  has  illustrated  it  on  every  page  of  his 
own  writings,  adapting  it  so  exactly  to  the 
magic  of  things  that  it  delights  the  scientist 
as  Nature  herself  would,  and  enchants  the 
poet  and  the  man  of  letters  as  only  the  mas- 
terpieces of  art  and  literature  have  power 
to  do. 

1  Souvenirs,  ix.,  pp.  176-178.  The  Mason  Beet,  chap,  xi., 
"  The  Jeucoopes." 


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CHAPTER  XX 

FABRE'S  WRITINGS   (CONTINUED) 

TN  attempting  to  define  the  point  of  view, 
the  method,  and  the  style  of  the  author  of 
the  Souvenirs,  we  have  broadly  sketched  the 
general  characteristics  of  his  work.  In  order 
to  complete  our  task,  and  to  give  a  clear  and 
comprehensive  ideu.  of  his  art,  we  will  now 
venture  upon  a  rapid  analysis  not  of  the 
author's  attitude  but  of  the  content  of  his 
works. 

The  Souvenirs  entomologiqucs  bear  a 
sub-title  which  perfectly  describes  their  es- 
sential and  characteristic  elements.  They 
are  offered  as  u  Studies  in  the  Instincts  and 
Habits  of  the  Insects,"  which  promise  us  both 
theoretical  considerations  and  records  of 
facts : 

At  the  very  outset,  and  to  judge  only  very  super- 
ficially, it  seems  that  these  latter  are  the  essential 
part  of  the  work,  and  the  author  must  be  consid- 
ered before  all  as  an  admirable  anecdotist,  or,  if  you 
will,  a  chronicler  of  animal  life.  But  we  very 

324 


Fabre's  Writings 

soon  perceive,  on  reading  him,  how  much  method, 
selection,  and  persevering  determination  have  pre- 
sided over  all  these  investigations,  which  may  ap- 
pear almost  incoherent,  and  are,  on  the  contrary, 
profoundly  systematic  and  definitely  ordered.1 

Francois  Coppee,  in  a  delightful  story,  shows  us 
an  austere  landscape  gardener  fiercely  destroying 
all  the  sparrows  and,  above  all,  the  blackbirds, 
which  disturb  and  dishonour  the  magnificent  sym- 
metry of  his  paths,  which  were  clipped  straight  with 
the  aid  of  a  taut  cord.  Our  gentleman  does  not 
leave  a  single  one  alive.  .  .  .  But  on  the  other 
side  of  the  party  wall  is  a  true  poet,  who,  not  hav- 
ing the  same  aesthetic,  buys  every  day  a  quantity  of 
birds  in  the  market,  and  indefatigably  "  puts  back 
the  blackbirds  "  into  his  neighbour's  shrubberies.2 

Fabre's  work  is  that  of  a  conscientious 
architect  who  has  sought  to  keep  the  shrub- 
beries and  alleys  of  his  garden  in  strict  or- 
der, but  the  racial  poet  lurking  behind  the 
architect  has  released  so  many  blackbirds 
that  he  seems  to  have  destroyed  the  tidiness 
of  the  garden.  Just  at  first,  the  Souvenirs 
produce  somewhat  the  same  impression  as 
the  harmas,  where  the  thousand  actors  of 
the  rural  stage  follow  one  another,  appear 
and  reappear,  at  varied  intervals,  at  the  will 

ij.  P.  Lafitte,  La  Nature,  March  26,  1910. 
2  Jean  Aicard,  Eloge  de  F.  Coppee. 

325 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  opportunity  or  caprice,  without  premedi- 
tated order.  But  the  observer  is  not  always 
master  of  his  encounters  and  discoveries,  and 
Fabre  wished  to  give  us,  in  his  books,  the 
faithful  record  of  his  observations,  and 
afford  us  the  pleasure  in  our  turn  of  those 
unexpected  encounters,  those  marvellous  dis- 
coveries which  made  his  life  an  enchant- 
ment, and  which  lend  his  narrative  an  in- 
terest equal  to  that  of  the  most  dramatic 
romance. 

Yet  there  has  been  a  selection,  a  definite 
arrangement  of  the  vast  collection  of  data 
collected  in  the  ten  volumes  of  the  Souvenirs. 

But  this  arrangement  and  this  selection  are 
by  no  means  inspired  by  the  official  classifi- 
cations. We  may  attempt,  as  many  eminent 
naturalists  have  done,  to  class  his  various 
monographs  in  the  classic  manner.  We  shall 
then  say,  with  M.  Perrier,  that  he  is  not 
greatly  occupied  with  the  Lepidoptera,  that 
he  studies  more  particularly  the  Hymenop- 
tera,  Coleoptera,  and  Orthoptera,  without 
neglecting  the  Arachnoids,  which  are  Ar- 
thropods, not  insects  properly  so  called.  It 
is  a  fact  that  this  singular  entomologist  pre- 
fers the  horrible  Spiders,  to  whom  all  the 
good  text-books  refuse  the  name  of  insect, 
to  the  most  beautiful  Butterflies.  It  is  true 
326 


Fabre's  Writings 

that  he  is  especially  attracted  by  the  four- 
winged  flies,  the  Wasps  and  wild  Bees,  the 
Dung-Beetles  and  Necrophori,  the  Mantes, 
Grasshoppers,  and  Scorpions;  but  this  is  not 
because  of  any  particular  affection  for  this 
group  or  on  account  of  their  quality  of  Hy- 
menoptera,  Coleoptera,  and  Orthoptera ;  for 
many  of  their  congeners  are  neglected  and 
many  insects  are  selected  out  of  their  order. 
This  is  bound  to  be  the  case,  for  the  official 
classification  is  conceived  on  totally  different 
lines  to  his  own,  going  by  the  form  of  the 
insect  without  heeding  its  actions  and  its 
habits.  It  is  much  the  same  with  the  official 
nomenclature. 

"  If,  by  chance,  an  amalgam  of  Greek  or 
Latin  gives  a  meaning  which  alludes  to  its 
manner  of  life,  the  reality  is  very  often  in 
disagreement  with  the  name,  because  the 
classifier,  working  over  a  necropolis,  has 
outstripped  the  observer,  whose  attention  is 
fixed  upon  the  community  of  the  living."  1 

So  the  historian  of  the  insects  takes  the 
greatest  liberties  with  official  science  and 
the  official  language. 

A  Spider  is  not  an  insect,  according  to  the  rules 
of  classification;  and  as  such  the  Epeira  seems  out 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  p.  79. 

327 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  place  here.  A  fig  for  systems!  It  is  immaterial 
to  the  student  of  instinct  whether  the  animal  have 
eight  legs  instead  of  six,  or  pulmonary  sacs  instead 
of  air-tubes.1 

Above  all,  Fabre  is  interested  in  the  study 
of  instinct.  It  is  this  that  determines  his 
choice  of  the  species  and  the  data  with  which 
he  occupies  his  leisure  and  entertains  his 
readers. 

Led  by  this  purpose,  allured  by  this  vision, 
he  turns  by  preference  to  the  most  richly- 
endowed  species,  disdaining  the  inept,  though 
they  may  be  the  most  beautiful  and  the 
most  resplendent,  like  the  Butterflies;  and  he 
is  often  attracted  by  creatures,  great  or 
small,  which  have  scarcely  anything  in  com- 
mon with  the  insects  save  their  habits.  Thus 
the  ferocity  of  the  Spiders  will  justify  their 
taking  rank  next  to  the  Scorpions,  the  Mantes 
and  the  Grasshoppers,  the  crudest  and  most 
ancient  of  terrestrial  creatures. 

Fabre,  in  fact,  seldom  departed  from  the 
warld  of  insects,  because  it  is  in  this  little 
world  that  the  greatest  miracles  of  instinct 
are  manifested,  in  accordance  with  the  en- 
tomologist's motto  Maxima  in  minimis. 

1  Souvenirs,  vm.,  p.  346.  The  Life  of  the  Spider,  chap. 
ii.,  "The  Banded  Epeira." 

328 


Fabre's  Writings 

And,  as  though  to  increase  this  prodigious 
contrast,  it  often  happens  that  the  most  re- 
markable instincts  are  allotted  to  the  smallest 
and  most  despised  of  insects: 

Among  the  insects  it  is  often  the  case  that  one 
well  known  to  all  is  a  mere  simpleton,  while  an- 
other, unknown,  has  real  capacity.  Endowed  with 
talents  worthy  of  attention,  it  remains  misunder- 
stood; rich  in  costume  and  imposing  in  deportment, 
it  is  familiar  to  us.  We  judge  it  by  its  coat  and 
its  size,  as  we  judge  our  neighbour  by  the  fineness 
of  his  clothes  and  the  place  which  he  occupies.  The 
rest  does  not  count. 

Certainly,  in  order  to  deserve  historical  honours, 
it  is  as  well  that  the  insect  should  possess  a  popu- 
lar reputation.  It  reassures  the  reader,  who  is  at 
once  precisely  informed ;  further,  it  shortens  the 
narrative,  rids  it  of  long  and  tedious  descriptions. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  size  facilitates  observation, 
if  grace  of  form  and  brilliance  of  costume  captivate 
the  eye,  we  should  do  wrong  not  to  take  this  out- 
ward show  into  account. 

But  far  more  important  are  the  habits,  the  in- 
genious operations,  which  give  entomological 
studies  their  serious  attraction.  Now  it  will  be 
found  that  among  the  insects  the  largest,  the  most 
splendid,  are  usually  inept  creatures:  a  contradic- 
tion which  is  reproduced  elsewhere.  What  can 
we  expect  from  a  Carabas,  all  glittering  with  metal- 
lic lights?  Nothing  but  feasting  in  the  slime  of 

329 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

murdered  snail.  What  of  the  Cetonia,  escaped, 
one  would  think,  from  a  jeweller's  show-case? 
Nothing  but  drowsing  in  the  heart  of  a  rose.  These 
splendid  creatures  do  nothing;  they  have  no  art  or 
craft. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  we  are  seeking  original 
inventions,  artistic  masterpieces  and  ingenious  con- 
trivance, let  us  apply  to  the  humblest,  more  often 
than  not  unknown  to  all.  And  let  us  not  be  re- 
pulsed by  appearances.  Ordure  reserves  for  us 
beautiful  and  curious  things  of  which  we  should 
not  find  the  like  upon  the  rose.  So  far  the  Mino- 
taur has  enlightened  us  by  her  family  habits.  Long 
live  modesty  arid  littleness !  J 

The  small  and  modest,  provided  they  are 
valiant  and  ingenious,  and  more  generally  all 
those  that  commend  themselves  by  unusual 
habits  or  singular  technical  aptitudes:  such 
are  the  insects  investigated  by  the  author 
of  the  Souvenirs.  These  he  follows  up  for 
years,  sometimes  in  their  natural  environ- 
ment, sometimes  in  his  laboratory.  He  in- 
quires into  their  manner  of  assuring  them- 
selves and  their  race  of  a  livelihood,  their 
fashion  of  behaviour  toward  their  congeners 
and  their  offspring;  their  industry  and  their 
habits  are  his  two  chief  preoccupations,  those 
which  are  brought  into  prominence  by  the 

1  Souvenirs,  X,  pp.  78-79. 

330 


Fabre's  Writings 

sub-title  of  his  book:  "  Studies  in  the  Instincts 
and  Habits  of  the  Insects,"  and  the  titles  of 
the  two  volumes  of  selections  which  have 
been  published  for  the  general  reader: 
La  Vie  des  Insectes  and  Les  Maeurs  des 
Insectes. 

It  is,  therefore,  about  these  two  principal 
themes,  which  are,  for  that  matter,  very 
closely  connected  and  very  subject  to  mutual 
interpenetration,  that  the  data  amassed  in 
the  ten  volumes  of  the  Souvenirs  must  be 
grouped  and  distributed,  if  we  wish  to  at- 
tempt a  classification  in  harmony  with  the 
character  of  the  books  and  the  nature  of 
their  contents. 

By  thus  assuming  the  point  of  view  of  the 
author  himself  and  adopting  the  principle 
and  the  form  of  his  classifications  and  de- 
nominations, we  shall  discover,  in  this  little 
entomological  world,  which  seems  to  have 
been  staged  a  little  at  random,  a  society  as 
rich  and  varied  as  our  own,  in  which  almost 
all  trades  and  all  characters  are  represented, 
all  the  industries  and  habits  of  humanity. 

Here,  as  among  us,  are  honest  toilers  and 
free-booters,  producers  and  parasites;  good 
and  bad  husbands  and  wives;  examples  of 
beautiful  devotion  and  hideous  egoism;  de- 
lightful amenities  and  ferocious  cruelties,  ex- 
331 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

tending  even  to  cannibalism;  workers  of 
every  class  and  manufacturers  of  every  kind, 
and,  in  a  higher  order  of  capacities,  engineers 
and  surgeons,  chemists  and  physicists,  natu- 
ralists and  physiologists,  topographers  and 
meteorologists,  geometricians  and  logicians, 
and  many  more,  whose  enumeration  we  will 
leave  to  the  reader. 

11  Let  us  assemble  facts  in  order  to  ob- 
tain ideas,"  said  Buffon.  In  this  process  may 
be  summed  up  the  whole  of  the  great  Pro- 
vengal  naturalist's  scientific  work.  If  he 
notes  the  least  circumstances  of  the  little 
lives  that  unfold  themselves  before  his  eyes, 
he  does  so  not  merely  as  an  observer  and  an 
artist  who  would  not  miss  the  smallest  ele- 
ment of  knowledge  or  beauty,  but  also  as  a 
philosopher  who  wishes  to  understand  all 
that  he  sees,  and  for  that  reason  neglects 
nothing.  In  entomology  the  smallest  facts 
are  not  only  the  most  curious  and  pictur- 
esque, they  are  often  the  most  significant: 
maxima  in  minimis.  Those  minute  details 
which  are  in  danger  of  being  regarded  as 
"  puerilities  are  connected  with  the  most 
solemn  questions  which  it  is  possible  for  man 
to  consider."  x 

1  Souvenirs,  x.,  p.  92. 

332 


Fabre's  Writings 

There  are  philosophical  meditations  in 
Fabre's  work,  evoked  by  his  observations, 
and,  like  his  observations,  they  are  not  pre- 
sented in  a  preconceived  order.  His  argu- 
ments are  scattered  throughout  his  work. 
Nowhere  in  the  Souvenirs  is  there  any  body 
of  doctrine.  They  contain  only  studies  of 
the  habits  of  individual  insects;  and  it  is  only 
when  he  has  gathered  certain  data  or  made 
certain  experiments  that  the  author  gives  us 
his  conclusions  or  explanations  or  attacks  the 
errors  of  the  theories  in  vogue. 

Yet  it  is  not  difficult,  such  is  their  degree 
of  prominence  and  continuity,  to  disengage 
and  synthetise  the  general  ideas  scattered 
throughout  this  vast  collection  of  facts.  We 
shall  make  the  attempt  in  order  to  give  the 
reader  at  least  a  glimpse  of  the  writer's  at- 
titude toward  the  problems  of  science  and  of 
life. 

From  the  achievements  and  actions  of  the 
insects,  the  philosophic  mind  of  the  naturalist 
first  of  all  deduces,  very  clearly,  the  general 
laws  of  their  activity. 

What  strikes  us  at  once  is  the  wonderful 
degree  of  knowledge  presupposed  by  cer- 
tain of  their  actions:  for  all  that  instinct  im- 
pels the  insect  to  do  is  marked  by  perfect 
wisdom,  comparable  and  even  superior  to 
.  333 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

human  wisdom.  This  first  law  of  instinct  is 
brought  into  especial  prominence  by  the 
author  of  the  Souvenirs  in  his  study  of  the 
Hunting  Wasps. 

These  Wasps,  which  are  themselves  purely 
vegetarian,  know  that  their  larvae  must  have 
animal  food;  fresh  succulent  flesh  still  quiv- 
ering with  life. 

Some,  like  the  Common  Wasp,  which 
watches  over  the  growth  of  its  offspring, 
feed  the  larvae  from  day  to  day,  as  the  bird 
brings  beakfuls  of  food  to  its  nestlings,  and 
these  kill  their  prey,  which  they  are  thus  able 
to  serve  to  their  larvae  perfectly  fresh. 

But  the  majority  do  not  watch  over  the 
hatching  or  the  growth  of  their  larvae.  They 
are  forced  therefore  to  lay  up  a  store  of  food 
beforehand.  They  know  this,  and  are  not 
found  wanting.  But  here  they  are  confronted 
by  a  most  difficult  problem.  If  the  prey  car- 
ried to  the  nest  is  dead,  it  will  quickly 
putrefy;  it  cannot  possibly  keep  fresh,  as  it 
must,  for  the  weeks  and  months  of  the 
larva's  growth.  If  it  is  alive  it  cannot  easily 
be  seized  by  the  larvae,  and  will  represent  a 
menace  or  even  a  deadly  danger.  The  Wasp 
must  discover  the  secret  of  producing,  in  her 
victims,  the  immobility  of  death  together 
with  the  incorruptibility  of  life.  And  the 
334 


Fabre's  Writings 

Wasps  have  discovered  this  secret,  for  the 
prey  which  they  provide  for  their  larvae  re- 
main at  their  disposal  to  the  end  without 
movement  and  without  deterioration.  Do 
these  tiny  creatures  know  intuitively  the  se- 
crets of  asepsis  which  Pasteur  discovered 
with  so  much  difficulty?  Such  was  the  con- 
clusion with  which  Dufour  was  forced  to  con- 
tent himself.  He  presumed  the  existence,  in 
the  Hunting  Wasps,  of  a  virus  which  was  at 
once  a  weapon  of  the  chase  and  a  liquid  pre- 
servative, for  the  immolation  and  conserva- 
tion of  the  victims.  But  even  if  aseptic  a 
dead  insect  would  shrivel  up  into  a  mummy. 
Now  this  must  not  occur,  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  the  Wasp's  victims  remain  moist  indefi- 
nitely, just  as  if  alive.  And  in  reality  they 
are  not  dead;  they  are  still  alive.  Fabre  has 
demonstrated  this  by  proving  the  persistence 
of  the  organic  functions,  and  by  feeding  some 
of  them  by  hand.  In  short,  it  is  incontest- 
able that  the  victims  are  not  put  to  death  but 
merely  deprived  of  movement,  smitten  with 
paralysis.  How  has  this  result,  more  miracu- 
lous even  than  asepsis,  been  obtained  by  the 
insect?  By  the  procedure  that  the  most  skil- 
ful physiologist  would  employ.  By  plunging 
its  sting  into  the  victim's  body,  not  at  ran- 
dom, which  might  kill  it,  but  at  certain  defi- 
335 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

nite  points,  exactly  where  the  invisible 
nervous  ganglia  are  located  which  control 
the  various  movements. 

For  the  rest,  the  operative  method  varies 
according  to  the  species  and  anatomy  of  the 
victim. 

In  his  investigation  of  the  paralysers, 
Dufour  was  unable  to  imagine  any  other 
weapon  of  the  chase  than  the  mere  inocula- 
tion of  a  deadly  virus;  the  Hymenopteron 
has  invented  a  means  of  immobilising  her 
victim  without  killing  it,  of  abolishing  its 
movements  without  destroying  its  organic 
functions,  of  dissociating  the  nervous  sys- 
tem of  the  vegetative  life  from  that  of  the 
life  of  reaction;  to  spare  the  first  while  an- 
nihilating the  second,  by  the  precise  adapta- 
tion of  this  delicate  surgery  to  the  victim's 
anatomy  and  physiology.  Dufour  was  un- 
able to  provide  anything  better  for  the 
larva's  larder  than  mummified  victims, 
shrivelled  and  more  or  less  flavourless;  the 
Hymenopteron  provided  them  with  living 
prey,  endowed  with  the  strange  prerogative 
of  keeping  fresh  indefinitely  without  food 
and  without  movement,  thanks  to  paralysis, 
far  superior  in  this  connection  to  asepsis. 

u  He,  the  master,  skilled  among  the  skil- 
ful, trained  in  the  finest  operations  of 
336 


Fabre's  Writings 

anatomy;  he  who,  with  lens  and  scalpel,  had 
examined  the  whole  entomological  series, 
leaving  not  a  corner  unexplored;  he,  finally, 
who  has  nothing  more  to  learn  of  the  or- 
ganisation of  the  insect,  can  think  of  nothing 
better  than  an  antiseptic  fluid  which  gives  at 
least  an  appearance  of  an  explanation  of  a 
fact  that  leaves  him  confounded,"  and  of 
which  he  has  not  discovered  the  full  miracle. 
The  author  of  this  immortal  discovery  rightly 
insists  on  "  this  comparison  between  the  in- 
sect's instinct  and  the  scientist's  reason,  the 
better  to  reveal  in  its  true  light  the  crushing 
superiority  of  the  insect." 

As  though  to  give  yet  another  verification 
of  the  words  so  justly  applied  to  entomology 
— maxime  miranda  in  minimis — the  larva's 
science  is  perhaps  even  more  disconcerting 
than  that  of  the  perfect  insect. 

The  Scolia's  larva  stupefies  us  by  the  order 
in  which  it  proceeds  to  devour  its  victim. 

"  It  proceeds  from  the  less  essential  to 
the  more  essential,  in  order  to  preserve  a 
remnant  of  life  to  the  very  last.  In  the  first 
place  it  absorbs  the  blood  which  issues  from 
the  wound  which  it  has  made  in  the  skin; 
then  it  proceeds  to  the  fatty  matter  en- 
veloping the  internal  organs;  then  the  mus- 
cular layer  lining  the  skin;  and  then,  in  the 
337 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

last  place,  the  essential  organs  and  the  nerve- 
centres."  x  "  We  thus  have  the  spectacle  of 
an  insect  which  is  eaten  alive,  morsel  by  mor- 
sel, during  a  period  of  nearly  a  fortnight,  be- 
coming empty  and  emaciated  and  collapsing 
upon  itself,"  while  preserving  its  succulence 
and  moisture  to  the  end. 

Starting  with  these  typical  facts,  which  tes- 
tify to  an  infallible  foresight  and  a  perfect 
adaptation  of  the  means  to  the  end,  the  list 
might  be  indefinitely  prolonged  with  the  aid 
of  Fabre's  memoirs.  But  these  are  enough 
to  show  us  that  "  what  instinct  tells  the  ani- 
mal is  marvellously  like  what  reason  tells 
us,"  so  that  we  find  nothing  unnatural  in 
Fabre's  exclamation  when  he  is  confronted 
by  the  profound  knowledge  of  the  Hymenop- 
teron  and  "  the  sublime  logic  of  her  stings." 
"Proud  Science,  humble  yourself!  "  All  this 
presumes,  in  short,  in  the  microscopic  little 
creatures  an  astonishingly  rational  inspira- 
tion which  adapts  means  to  the  end  with  a 
logic  that  confounds  us. 

And  all  this  would  be  very  much  to  the 
credit  of  the  insect  and  to  the  disadvantage 
of  man  if  there  were  not  a  reverse  side  to 
the  medal.  But  the  same  insect  that  con- 
founds us  by  its  knowledge  and  wisdom  also 

1  Revue  des  Deux-Mondes,  Dec.  1910,  p.  875. 
338 


Fabre's  Writings 

disconcerts  us  by  its  ignorance  and  stupidity. 

The  best-endowed  insect  cannot  do  any- 
thing "  outside  the  narrow  circle  of  its  at- 
tributions. Every  insect  displays,  in  its  call- 
ing, in  which  it  excels,  its  series  of  logically 
co-ordinated  actions.  There  it  is  truly  a 
master."  x  Apart  from  this  it  is  utterly  in- 
capable. And  even  within  the  cycle  of  its 
attributions,  apart  from  the  customary  con- 
ditions under  which  it  exercises  them,  the 
ineptness  of  the  insect  surpasses  imagination. 
*  Let  us  consider  the  facts. 

One  of  these  Hymenoptera  whose  impec- 
cable science  we  were  admiring  just  now,  a 
Languedocian  Sphex,  is  busy  closing  the  bur- 
row in  which  she  has  laid  her  egg  with  its 
store  of  game.  We  brush  her  aside,  and 
plunder  her  nest  before  her  eyes.  Directly 
the  passage  is  free,  she  enters  and  remains 
for  a  few  moments.  Then  she  emerges  and 
proceeds  to  stop  up  the  cell,  as  though  noth- 
ing were  the  matter,  as  though  she  had  not 
found  her  burrow  empty,  as  though  the  work 
of  closing  the  cell  had  still  a  motive.2 

The  Mason-Bee,  excellently  endowed  in 
the  matter  of  boring,  emerges  from  her  nest 


1  Souvenirs,  I.,  pp.  265,  314.;  v.,  p.  99;  vn.,  p.  48. 

2  Ibid.,  i.,  171-175.    The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  x.,  "  The 
Ignorance  of  Instinct." 

339 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  mortar  by  piercing  the  earthen  dome  which 
covers  it.  Let  us  cover  the  nest  from  which 
the  Bee  is  about  to  emerge  with  a  little  paper 
bag.  If  the  bag  is  placed  in  contact  with  the 
nest  so  as  to  make  one  piece  with  it,  so  to 
speak,  the  Bee  perforates  it  and  liberates 
herself.  If  it  is  not  in  contact  with  the  nest, 
she  remains  imprisoned  and  will  let  herself 
die  without  perforating  the  bag. 

"Here,  then,  are  sturdy  insects  for  whom 
boring  tufa  is  mere  child's  play,  which  will 
stupidly  let  themselves  perish  imprisoned  by 
a  paper  bag,"  1  to  which  it  does  not  even 
occur  to  bite  a  second  time  through  the  frail 
envelope  through  which  they  have  already 
bitten  once  when  it  was,  so  to  speak,  part  of 
the  earthen  enclosure. 

The  Wasp,  which  is  such  a  marvellous 
architect,  and  so  skilful  a  digger,  is  no  better 
able  to  employ  her  talents.  During  the  night 
we  place  a  bell-glass  over  a  Wasp's  nest.  In 
the  morning  the  Wasps  issue  forth  and 
struggle  against  the  glass  wall,  but  not  one 
of  them  dreams  of  digging  at  the  foot  of 
the  treacherous  circle.  But  one  Wasp,  of 
several  which  have  strayed  from  the  com- 
munity, coming  from  outside,  opens  up  a  way 

1  Souvenirs,  i.,  pp.  297-298.     The  Mason-Bees,  chap,  ii., 
"  Experiments." 

340 


Fabre's  Writings 

to  the  nest  under  the  edge  of  the  bell-glass, 
which  is  a  natural  enough  proceeding  for  an 
insect  returning  from  the  fields,  who  may 
have  to  gain  her  nest  through  falls  of  earth 
in  the  entry.  But  even  this  particular  Wasp 
cannot  repeat  the  operation  in  order  to 
emerge  from  the  bell-glass,  and  the  whole 
community  eventually  die  prisoners  after  a 
week  of  futile  agitation.  The  entomologist 
finds  this  ineptness  of  the  Wasp  repeated  in 
the  Necrophori,  who  nevertheless  have  a 
great  reputation  for  intelligence,  and,  in 
general,  in  all  the  insects  which  he  has  had  oc- 
casion to  rear  under  a  bell-glass. 

The  larva  is  subject  to  the  same  absurdi- 
ties as  the  adult  insect.  The  Scolia's  larva, 
which  eats  in  such  a  scientific  manner,  is 
quite  unable  to  apply  its  remarkable  talents 
the  moment  it  is  off  the  beaten  track.  Placed 
on  the  victim's  back  at  a  spot  which  is  not 
the  normal  point  of  attack,  placed  on  a 
Cetonia-grub  that  is  immobilised  without 
being  paralysed,  or  merely  removed  for  a 
moment  from  its  position,  it  is  no  longer  able 
to  do  anything  right. 

By  a  strange  contradiction,  characteristic  of  the 
instinctive  faculties,  profound  knowledge  is  asso- 
ciated with  an  ignorance  no  less  profound.  .  .  . 

341 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

For  instinct  nothing  is  difficult,  so  long  as  the  ac- 
tion does  not  diverge  from  the  immutable  cycle 
laid  down  for  the  insect;  for  instinct,  again,  noth- 
ing is  easy  if  the  action  has  to  diverge  from  the 
paths  habitually  followed.  The  instinct  which 
amazes  us,  which  terrifies  us  by  its  supreme  lucid- 
ity, astonishes  us  by  its  stupidity  a  moment  later, 
when  confronted  with  the  simplest  situation  which 
is  alien  to  its  ordinary  practice.  .  .  .  Instinct 
knows  everything  in  the  invariable  tracks  which 
have  been  laid  down  for  it;  nothing  when  off  this 
track. 

Sublime  inspirations  of  science  and  amazing  in- 
consequences of  stupidity  are  both  its  heritage,  ac- 
cordingly as  it  is  acting  under  normal  or  accidental 
conditions.1 

It  would  be  interesting  to  pursue  this  in- 
quiry into  the  general  laws  of  instinct,  and  to 
give,  as  a  pendant  to  the  antithesis  of  its  wis- 
dom and  stupidity,  the  no  less  singular 
antithesis  of  its  automatism  and  its  varia- 
tions. But  that  we  may  not  beyond  all 
measure  enlarge  the  proportions  of  this 
monograph  we  will  pass  on  at  once  to  the 
determination  of  the  causes  of  instinct,  as 
related  by  our  naturalist  philosopher. 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  165.  The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  x., 
"  The  Ignorance  of  Instinct."  Ibid.,  IV.,  p.  238 ;  v.,  p.  90. 
The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others,  chap,  vii.,  "  The  Broad- 
necked  Scarabaeus." 

342 


Fabre's  Writings 

The  laudator  temporis  acti  is  untimely,  for  the 
world  progresses.  Yes,  but  backwards  at  times. 
In  my  young  days,  in  the  twopenny  classics,  we 
were  taught  that  man  is  a  reasoning  animal ;  to-day, 
in  learned  volumes,  it  is  demonstrated  that  human 
reason  is  only  a  higher  degree  upon  a  scale  whose 
base  descends  into  the  depths  of  animality.  There 
is  the  more  and  the  less,  and  all  the  intermediate 
degrees,  but  nowhere  a  sudden  solution  of  con- 
tinuity. It  begins  at  zero  in  the  albumen  of  a  cell, 
and  rises  to  the  mighty  brain  of  a  Newton.  The 
noble  faculty  of  which  we  were  so  proud  is  a 
zoological  attribute. 

This  is  an  assertion  of  grave  significance.  .  .  . 
Assuredly  we  have  need  of  ingenuousness  in  en- 
tomology. Without  a  good  dose  of  this  quality, 
sheer  \\rongheadedness  in  the  eyes  of  practical  folk, 
who  could  trouble  himself  about  insects?  Yes,  let 
us  be  naive,  without  being  childishly  credulous. 
Before  making  the  animal  reason,  let  us  reason  a 
little  ourselves.  Above  all,  let  us  consult  the  ex- 
perimental test.  Facts  gathered  at  random,  with- 
out a  critical  selection,  cannot  constitute  a  law.1 

And  the  prudent  naturalist  sifts  all  the 
anecdotes  and  records  of  habits,  all  the  ra- 
tional or  sentimental  achievements  which  the 

1  Souvenirs,  II.,  p.  157.  The  Mason-Bees,  chap,  vii., 
"Reflections  upon  Insect  Psychology."  Ibid.,  vi.,  pp.  116, 
131,  148.  The  Gloiu-Worm  and  Other  Beetles,  chap,  xii., 
"The  Burying  Beetles:  Experiments;"  also  Wonders 
of  Instinct,  chap.  vi. 

343 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

writers  of  books  and  the  "  glorifiers  of  the 
animal  "  pass  from  hand  to  hand,  showing 
clearly  that  all  the  facts  alleged  in  proof 
of  the  intelligence  of  animals  are  ill-observed 
or  wrongly  interpreted. 

Having  shown  in  its  true  light  one  of  these 
fabricated  facts  related  by  Clairville,  he 
cries: 

Yet  one  more  of  the  fine  arguments  in  support 
of  the  animal's  reasoning  powers  that  takes  to  flight 
in  the  light  of  experiment.  ...  I  admire  your 
candid  faith,  my  masters,  you  who  take  seriously 
the  statements  of  chance  observers  richer  in  imag- 
ination than  in  veracity.  I  admire  your  credulous 
enthusiasm,  when,  without  criticism,  you  support 
your  theories  on  such  stupidities.1 

Fabre  has  no  greater  faith  in  the  virtue  of 
animals  than  in  their  reason,  since  one  can- 
not exist  without  the  other.  It  is  true  that 
the  Copris,  the  most  richly  endowed  of  in- 
sects in  respect  of  the  maternal  instinct, 
does  not  differentiate  between  the  care  which 
she  lavishes  on  strangers  and  that  which  she 
gives  to  the  children  of  her  household;  but 
the  pitiless  observer  shows  that  this  is  be- 
cause she  cannot  distinguish  between  them. 

1  Souvenirs,  vi.,  pp.  130,  143.  The  Glow-Worm  and 
Other  Beetles,  chap,  xii.,  "The  Burying  Beetles:  Ex- 
periments." 

344 


Fabre's  Writings 

It  is  not  the  function  of  impartial  history  to  main- 
tain a  given  thesis;  it  follows  where  the  facts  lead 
it.1 

The  historian  of  the  insects  simply  con- 
fronts the  facts  of  the  entomological  world 
which  he  has  explored  under  all  its  aspects: 

To  speak  with  certainty,  we  must  not  depart 
from  what  we  really  know.  I  am  beginning  to 
know  the  insect  passably  well  after  forty  years  of 
intercourse  with  it.  Let  us  question  the  insect:  not 
the  first  comer,  but  the  best  endowed,  the  Hymen- 
opteron.  I  am  generous  to  my  opponents.  Where 
will  you  find  a  creature  richer  in  talents?  .  .  . 
Well,  does  this  refined  and  privileged  member  of 
the  animal  kingdom  reason? 

And,  first  of  all,  what  is  reason  ?  Philosophy  will 
give  us  learned  definitions.  Let  us  be  modest ;  let 
us  stick  to  the  simplest;  we  are  only  dealing  with 
animals.  Reason  is  the  faculty  which  refers  the 
effect  to  the  cause,  the  means  to  the  end,  and  di- 
rects the  action  by  making  it  conform  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  accidental.  Within  these  limits 
is  the  animal  able  to  reason?  Does  it  understand 
how  to  associate  a  because  with  a  why,  and  behave 
in  accordance?  Can  it,  confronted  with  an  acci- 
dent, alter  its  line  of  conduct?2 

1  Souvenirs,  v.,  pp.  141,  142,   150.     The  Sacred  Beetle 
and    others,    chap,    xvi.,    "  The    Lunary    Copris."      The 
Glow-Worm  and  Other  Beetles,  chap,   xi.,   "  The   Bury- 
ing Beetles." 

2  Souvenirs,  u.,   p.    159.      The   Mason-Bees,  chap.   vii. 

345 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

To  all  these  questions  the  facts  already 
cited  have  replied.  It  is  evident  that  the 
Hymenopteron  which  provisions  or  closes 
the  nest  found  empty  under  the  conditions 
which  we  have  seen  imposed  upon  the  Sphex 
or  the  Pelopaeus,  is  ignorant  of  the  why  of 
her  work  and  does  not  in  any  case  connect  it 
with  its  natural  aim,  which  is  the  rearing  of 
the  larvae. 

These  expert  surgeons,  these  marvellous  anatom- 
ists know  nothing  whatever,  not  even  what  their 
victims  are  intended  for.  Their  talent,  which 
confounds  our  reason,  is  devoid  of  a  shadow  of 
consciousness  of  the  work  accomplished,  a  shadow 
of  foresight  concerning  the  egg.1 

Fabre,  then,  has  vainly  sought  for 
u  proofs  "  of  the  intervention  of  reason  in  the 
actions  of  the  insect.  He  has  not  found  them. 
He  has  even  found  the  very  contrary;  the 
insect,  interrogated  as  to  its  powers  of  rea- 
son and  "  the  logic  attributed  to  it,"  has 
plainly  replied  that  it  is  entirely  lacking  in 
reason  and  that  logic  is  not  its  strong  point. 

"  Reflections  upon  Insect  Psychology."  Souvenirs,  vi., 
n6.  The  Glow-Worm  and  Other  Beetles,  chap.  xi. 
"  The  Burying  Beetles " ;  see  also  Wonders  of  Instinct, 
chap.  vi. 

1  Souvenirs,  iv.,  p.  238. 

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Fabre's  Writings 

Yet  he  is  far  from  wishing  to  "  belittle  the 
merits  "  or  "  diminish  the  reputation  "  of  his 
beloved  insects.  No  one  can  be  less  suspected 
of  prejudice  against  them,  since  none  has 
"glorified"  them  more  abundantly;  no  one 
has  spoken  of  them  with  greater  admiration 
and  sympathy;  no  one  has  more  fully  de- 
scribed their  high  achievements,  and  no  one 
has  revealed  such  unknown  and  incredible 
marvels  on  their  behalf.  It  is  enough  to  re- 
call the  "  miracles  "  of  the  science  and  wis- 
dom of  the  paralysers. 

But  far  from  invalidating  the  conclusion 
drawn  from  the  obvious  stupidity  of  the  in- 
sect even  in  the  actions  which  are  its  specialty, 
the  science  and  wisdom  of  instinct  afford  it 
a  striking  confirmation.  The  very  "  slightest 
glimmer  of  intelligence "  would  suffice  to 
make  the  insect  do  what  it  does  not  and  leave 
undone  what  it  does  even  within  the  circum- 
ference of  its  attributions.  If  it  is  plainly 
devoid  of  this  glimmer,  how  much  more 
plainly  is  it  devoid  of  that  "  splendour  of  in- 
telligence "  which  the  "  miracles  "  of  instinct 
would  require ! 1  To  sum  up,  the  insect  sins 
too  greatly  by  excess  and  by  defect  in  its  in- 
stinctive actions  to  justify  our  attributing  to 
it  an  understanding  of  these  actions;  we  are 

i  Souvenirs,  n.,  p.   138;  vi.,  pp.  98,  117. 

347 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

indeed  compelled  absolutely  to  deny  it  any 
such  understanding.  It  does  at  once  too 
much  and  too  little;  too  much  for  an  insect's 
intelligence  and  too  little  for  any  intelligence 
whatever.  Everything  is  against  it;  its 
knowledge  as  much  as  its  ignorance ;  its  logic 
as  much  as  its  inconsequences. 

So  long  as  its  circumstances  are  normal,  the  in- 
sect's actions  are  calculated  most  rationally  in  view 
of  the  object  to  be  attained.  What  could  be  more 
logical,  for  instance,  than  the  devices  employed  by 
the  Hunting  Wasp  when  paralysing  her  prey  so 
that  it  may  keep  fresh  for  her  larva,  while  in  no 
wise  imperilling  that  larva's  safety?  It  is  pre- 
eminently rational;  we  ourselves  could  think  of 
nothing  better;  and  yet  the  Wasp's  action  is  not 
prompted  by  reason.  If  she  thought  out  her  surg- 
ery, she  would  be  our  superior.  It  will  never  oc- 
cur to  anybody  that  the  creature  is  able,  in  the 
smallest  degree,  to  account  for  its  skilful  vivi- 
sections. Therefore,  so  long  as  it  does  not  depart 
from  the  path  mapped  out  for  it,  the  insect  can 
perform  the  most  sagacious  actions  without  entitling 
us  in  the  least  to  attribute  these  to  the  dictates  of 
reason.1 

These  acts  of  instinct,  so  scientifically  de- 
vised and  so  rationally  performed  by  works 

1  Souvenirs,  I.,  p.  220.  The  Hunting  Wasps,  chap,  xiii, 
"The  Araraophila." 

348 


Fabre's  Writings 

devoid  of  either  judgment  or  reason,  must 
be  explained  by  referring  them  to  a  propor- 
tionate cause,  whence  proceed  the  logic  and 
the  science  which  evidently  do  not  proceed 
from  the  insect  itself. 

I  consign  to  the  meditations  of  philosophy  these 
five  makers  of  spherical  conserves — [he  is  speaking 
of  the  Scarabaei] — and  their  numerous  rivals.  I 
consign  to  them  these  inventors  of  the  spherical  box, 
of  greater  volume  and  smaller  surface,  for  provi- 
sions liable  to  dry  up,  and  I  ask  them  how  such 
logical  inspirations,  such  rational  provisions,  could 
unfold  themselves  in  the  murky  intellect  of  the  in- 
sect. .  .  .  The  work  of  the  pill-makers  propounds 
a  grave  problem  to  him  who  is  capable  of  reflection. 
It  confronts  us  with  this  alternative :  either  we  must 
attribute  to  the  flat  cranium  of  the  Dung-beetle 
the  notable  honour  of  having  solved  for  itself  the 
geometrical  problem  of  its  conserve,  or  we  must 
refer  it  to  a  harmony  ruling  all  things  beneath  the 
eye  of  an  Intelligence  that,  knowing  all,  has  fore- 
seen all.  ...  If  the  Rhynchites  and  its  emulators 
in  defensive  means  against  the  perils  of  asphyxia 
have  taught  themselves  their  trade ;  if  they  are  really 
the  children  of  their  works,  do  not  let  us  hesitate 
.  .  .  let  us  recognise  them  as  engineers  capable  of 
winning  our  diplomas  and  degrees;  let  us  proclaim 
the  microcephalic  Weevil  a  powerful  thinker,  a 
wonderful  inventor.  You  dare  not  go  to  these 
lengths;  you  prefer  to  have  recourse  to  the  chances 
349 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  hazard.  Ah,  but  what  a  wretched  resource  is 
hazard,  when  such  rational  contrivances  are  in 
question !  One  might  as  well  throw  into  the  air  the 
characters  of  the  alphabet  and  expect  to  see  them, 
on  falling,  form  certain  lines  selected  from  a  poem! 
Instead  of  loading  our  minds  with  such  tortuous 
ideas,  how  much  simpler  and  more  truthful  to  say: 
"  A  sovereign  Order  rules  over  matter."  This  is 
what  the  Sloe  Weevil  tells  us  in  its  humility ! 1 

We  heard  the  same  language,  uttered  per- 
haps even  more  persuasively,  from  the  Hairy 
Ammophila,  among  many  others,  one  day 
when,  as  a  beginner  in  entomology,  he  con- 
sidered her  performing  her  delicate  and  ex- 
pert operations,  bending  over  a  bank  on  the 
table-land  of  Les  Angles,  in  company  with  a 
friend : 

The  Wasp  acts  with  a  precision  of  which  science 
would  be  jealous;  she  knows  what  man  hardly  ever 
knows;  she  understands  the  complex  nervous  sys- 
tem of  her  victim.  ...  I  say,  she  knows  and  un- 
derstands; I  ought  to  say,  she  acts  as  though  she 
knew  and  understood.  Her  act  is  all  inspiration. 
The  insect,  without  having  any  conception  of  what 
it  is  doing,  obeys  the  instinct  that  impels  it.  But 

1  Souvenirs,  v.,  p.  130.     The  Sacred  Beetle  and  Others, 
chap,  xvi.,  "  The  Lunary  Copris."     Souvenirs,  vi.,  p.  97. 
The   Glow-Worm   and  Other  Beetles,   chap,   x.,   "  Insect 
Colouring."    Souvenirs,  VH.,  p.  193. 
350 


Fabre's  Writings 

whence  comes  this  sublime  inspiration?  .  .  .  For 
me  and  my  friend,  this  was  and  has  remained  one 
of  the  most  eloquent  revelations  of  the  ineffable 
logic  that  rules  the  world  and  guides  the  uncon- 
scious by  the  laws  of  its  inspiration.  Moved  to 
the  depths  by  this  flash  of  truth,  we  felt,  forming 
upon  our  eyelids,  tears  of  indefinable  emotion."  * 

The  more  he  sees,  the  more  he  reflects, 
the  more  radiantly  clear  does  the  meaning  of 
these  facts  appear  to  him: 

Can  the  insect  have  acquired  its  skill  gradually, 
from  generation  to  generation,  by  a  long  series 
of  casual  experiments,  of  blind  gropings?  Can 
such  order  be  born  of  chaos ;  such  foresight  of  haz- 
ard; such  wisdom  of  stupidity?  Is  the  world  sub- 
ject to  the  fatalities  of  evolution,  from  the  first 
albuminous  atom  which  coagulated  into  a  cell,  or 
is  it  ruled  by  an  Intelligence?  The  more  I  see  and 
the  more  I  observe,  the  more  does  this  Intelligence 
shine  behind  the  mystery  of  things.  I  know  that  I 
shall  not  fail  to  be  treated  as  an  abominable  "  final 
causer."  Little  do  I  care!  A  sure  sign  of  being 
right  in  the  future  is  to  be  out  of  fashion  in  the 
present. 

A  long  time  ago  [says  a  contemporary  apologist], 
I  was  discussing  matters  with  an  astronome*  who 

1  Souvenirs,   I.,    p.    220.       The    Hunting  Wasps,  chap, 

xiii.,    "  The    Ammophila."      Souvenirs,   v.,  p.    322.  The 

Life  of  the  Grasshopper,  chap    viii.,  "The  Mantis:  The 

Nest." 

351 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

was  possessed  of  knowledge,  a  certain  penetration 
and  a  certain  courage.  He  pushed  this  penetra- 
tion and  this  courage  to  the  length  of  declaring, 
before  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  that  the  laws  of 
nature  form  a  harmony  and  reveal  a  plan. 

I  had  an  opportunity  of  congratulating  him,  and 
he  was  good  enough  to  express  his  satisfaction.  I 
profited  by  this  to  suggest  that  he  was  doubtless 
ready  to  develop  his  conclusions  yet  further,  and 
that  since  he  recognised  the  existence  of  a  plan  he 
admitted,  at  the  origin  of  things,  a  Mind:  in  short, 
an  intelligent  Being. 

Suddenly  my  astronomer  turned  up  his  nose, 
without  offering  me  any  argument  capable  of  any 
sort  of  analysis. 

In  vain  did  I  explain  that  to  deduce  the  exist- 
ence of  an  intelligent  Being  because  one  has  dis- 
covered the  existence  of  a  plan  is,  after  all,  to  con- 
tinue the  train  of  reasoning  which  deduces  the  ex- 
istence of  a  plan  after  observing  that  there  is  a 
system  of  laws.  In  vain  I  pointed  out  that  I  was 
merely  making  use  of  his  own  argument.  My 
astronomer  refused  to  go  any  further  along  the  path 
upon  which  he  had  entered.  There  he  would  have 
met  God,  and  that  was  what  he  was  unwilling  to 
do.1 

J.  H.  Fabre  does  not  stop  half-way  to  the 
truth  for  fear  of  meeting  God.  He  is  logical, 
loyal,  and  courageous  to  the  end.  He  argues 
from  the  facts  to  laws  and  from  laws  to 

1  E.  Tavernier. 

352 


Fabre's  Writings 

causes,  and  from  them  to  the  "  Cause  of 
causes,"  the  "  Reason  of  reasons,"  x  concern- 
ing which,  says  M.  Perrier,  he  has  not  "  the 
pedantic  feebleness  of  grudging  it  the  name 
of  God."  2 

If  Fabre  so  briskly  attacks  the  theory  of 
evolution,  it  is  not  so  much  because  of  the 
biological  results  which  it  attributes  to  the 
animal  far  niente  as  because  it  offers  such  a 
convenient  pretext  for  that  sort  of  intellectual 
laziness  that  willingly  relies  upon  an  explana- 
tion provided  beforehand  and  readily  exon- 
erates itself  from  the  difficult  task  of  search- 
ing more  deeply  into  the  domain  of  facts  as 
well  as  that  of  causes.3  If  the  explanation 
were  not  notoriously  insufficient  one  might 
overlook  the  abuses  which  it  covers,  inno- 
cently enough,  but,  to  speak  only  of  the 
insect,  all  its  analyses,  were  they  admissible, 
leave  the  problem  of  instinct  untouched: 
u  How  did  the  insect  acquire  so  discerning  an 
art?  An  eternal  problem  if  we  do  not  rise 
above  the  dust  to  dust "  4  of  evolution.  At 
all  events,  as  it  is  presented  it  is  merely,  we 

1  Souvenirs,  X.,  pp.  92,  214. 

2  Revue  hebdomadaire,  October  22,  1910. 

3  La  Nature,  March  26,  1910.   "  It  will  be  to  M.  Fabre's 
lasting  honour  that  he  has  never  known  any  idleness  of 
this  kind  or,  indeed,  any  kind  of  idleness." 

*  Souvenirs,  vi.,  p.  75. 

353 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

repeat,  "  a  convenient  pillow  for  the  man 
who  has  not  the  courage  to  investigate  more 
deeply."  1  For  him,  he  has  this  courage  and 
this  power  of  ascension,  and  he  readily 
spreads  his  wings  to  rise  above  matter  and 
the  night  of  this  world  and  soar  to  those 
radiant  heights  where  Divinity  reveals  itself, 
together  with  the  supreme  explanation  of  the 
light  which  lightens  this  darkness  and  the  life 
that  inspires  this  matter.2 


1  Fabre  denies  "  by  the  light  of  the  facts  "  almost  all 
the  ideas  which  evolution  invokes  to  explain  the  forma- 
tion of  species.     (Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  p.  891.)     He 
says:     "The  facts  as  I   see  them   lead   me  away  from 
Darwin's   theories.     Whenever   I   try   to   apply   selection 
to  the  facts  observed,  it  leaves  me  whirling  in  the  void. 
It  is  majestic,  but  sterile:  evolution  asserts  as  regards  the 
past;  it  asserts  as  regards  the  future;   but  it  tells  us  as 
little  as  possible  about  the  present.     Of  the  three  terms 
of  duration  one  only  escapes  it,  and  that  is  the  very  one 
which  is  free  from  the  fantastic  imaginings  of  hypothe- 
sis." 

2  Fabre  appears  to  conceive  a  relation  between  instinct 
and  the  organ  analogous  to  that  which  obtains  between 
the  soul   and  the  body;   for  him  the  first  element  of  in- 
stinct is  an  incorporeal  element  which  he  does  not  other- 
wise define,   which  he   characterises  merely   as   a   native 
impulse,  irresistible,  infallible  and  superior  to  the  organ- 
ism as  well  as  to  the  sensibility  of  the  insect,   although 
it  is  not  separated   from  nor  completely   independent  of 
these. 

For  the  rest,  instinct  remains  a  mystery.  What  it  is 
at  bottom,  "  I  do  not  know,  I  shall  never  know.  It  is 
an  inviolable  secret."  Like  all  true  scientists,  Fabre  rec- 
ognised the  narrow  limits  of  human  knowledge  and  did 
not  fear  to  admit  them.  According  to  him,  neither  life 
nor  instinct  results  from  matter;  we  must  seek  for  an 

354 


Fabre's  Writings 

We  have  said  enough  to  show  that  Fabre 
is  decidedly  of  the  race  of  those  great  men 
who  soar  high  above  the  vulgar  prejudices, 
pedantries,  and  weaknesses,  and  whose  won- 
derful discoveries  bring  them  nearer  to  God 
as  they  uplift  them  above  the  common  level 
of  humanity. 

Having  written  The  Harmony  of  the 
World,  and  casting  a  final  glance  at  the 
charts  of  the  heavens  and  also  at  the  long 
labour  of  his  life,  Kepler  offered  his  God 
this  homage : 

O  Thou,  who  by  the  light  of  Nature  hast  caused 
us  to  sigh  after  the  light  of  grace,  in  order  to  reveal 
unto  us  the  light  of  Thy  glory,  I  thank  Thee,  my 
Creator  and  my  God,  that  Thou  hast  permitted  me 
to  admire  and  to  love  Thy  works.  I  have  now  fin- 
ished the  work  of  my  life  with  the  strength  of  the 
understanding  which  Thou  hast  vouchsafed  me;  I 


explanation  not  below  but  above  it,  and  of  all  the  mar- 
vels created  that  compel  us  to  look  upward  and  pro- 
claim the  Supreme  Intelligence  whence  they  are  de- 
rived, this  is  one  of  the  most  striking  and  persuasive: 
"  The  more  I  see,  the  more  I  observe,  the  more  this  In- 
telligence shines  forth  behind  the  mystery  of  things." 

Fabre  thus  joins  hands  with  Pasteur,  and  may  fitly 
be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  him,  as  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  defenders  of  spiritual  science  and 
belief  against  materialistic  science  and  atheism.  This 
is  all  the  more  remarkable  in  that  Fabre  has  never 
attempted  to  make  any  apologia,  but  simply  stated 
whither  all  his  observations  and  reflections  tended. 

355 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

have  recounted  to  men  the  glory  of  Thy  works,  in 
so  far  as  my  mind  has  been  able  to  comprehend 
their  infinite  majesty.  .  .  .  Praise  the  Creator,  O 
my  soul!  It  is  by  Him  and  in  Him  that  all  exists, 
the  material  world  as  well  as  the  spiritual  world,  all 
that  we  know  and  all  that  we  do  not  know  as  yet, 
for  there  remains  much  for  us  to  do  that  we  leave 
unfinished.  .  .  . 

Uniting  the  point  of  view  of  exegesis  with 
that  of  natural  science,  one  of  the  greatest 
and  broadest  minds  of  antiquity,  Origen,  has 
written  these  noble  words : 

The  providential  action  of  God  manifests  itself 
in  the  minute  corpuscles  of  the  animals  as  well  as 
in  the  superior  beings;  it  directs  with  the  same  fore- 
sight the  step  of  an  ant  and  the  courses  of  the  sun 
and  the  moon.  It  is  the  same  in  the  supernatural 
domain.  The  Holy  Spirit  which  has  inspired  our 
sacred  Scriptures  has  penetrated  them  with  its  in- 
spiration to  the  last  letter:  Divina  sapientia  omnem 
Scripturam  divitus  datam  vel  adunam  usque  lit- 
terulam  attigit.  .  .  .* 

The  reader  will  doubtless  pardon  a  pro- 
fessor of  exegesis,  whose  admiration  for  the 
prince  of  entomologists  has  made  him  his 
biographer,  for  terminating  this  analysis  of 

1  Quoted  from  Mgr.  Mignot,  Lettres  sur  les  Etudes  ec- 
clesieutiques,  p.  248. 

356 


Fabre's  Writings 

the  naturalist's  philosophical  and  religious 
ideas  by  a  synthetic  view  which  brings  him 
into  closer  communion  with  his  hero :  "  all 
things  are  linked  together,"  as  he  himself 
has  said,1  and  the  study  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, if  he  could  have  devoted  himself 
thereto,  would  certainly  have  led  this  noble 
and  penetrating  mind  to  render  the  same  tes- 
timony to  the  truth  of  Christ  and  the  Church 
as  that  which  it  has  rendered  to  the  truth  of 
the  soul  and  God. 

1  Souvenirs,  Hi.,  p.  91. 


357 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  GREAT   PREPARATION 

THE  title  which  we  have  given  this  chap- 
ter is  that  which  M.  Perrier,  the  emi- 
nent Director  of  the  Museum  of  Natural 
History,  lately  inscribed  at  the  head  of  a 
remarkable  article  in  the  Revue  hebdoma- 
daire.  In  this  the  author  showed  how  just 
and  how  far  inferior  to  his  deserts  are  the 
honours  so  tardily  accorded  to  the  man 
whose  life  and  labours  we  have  sketched. 

We  assuredly  cannot  say  that  Fabre's 
name  and  his  work  have  until  lately  remained 
unknown  or  even  undervalued.  At  an  early 
period  he  was  honoured  by  the  admiration 
and  friendship  of  such  men  as  Dufour  and 
Duruy.  On  several  occasions  his  works  have 
been  crowned  by  the  highest  awards  of  the 
Institute.  Not  content  with  belonging  to  the 
Zoological  Society  and  the  Entomological 
Society  of  France,  and  with  being  elected  in 
1887  corresponding  member  of  the  Academy 
of  Sciences,  he  has  also  been  granted,  as 
though  in  emulation,  the  title  of  honorary 
member  by  the  most  famous  foreign  acad- 
emies, the  Scientific  Societies  of  Brussels, 
358 


A  Great  Preparation 

Geneva,  etc.,  and  the  Entomological  So- 
cieties of  London,  Stockholm,  and  St.  Peters- 
burg. ^ 

If  it  is  true,  as  some  one  has  said,  that 
posterity  begins  at  the  frontier,  these  numer- 
ous and  flattering  distinctions,  coming  from 
all  points  of  the  horizon,  are  full  of  promise 
for  the  immortality  of  his  work.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly the  case  that  foreigners  benefit  by 
a  degree  of  remoteness  which  is  favourable 
to  sane  judgment.  For  that  matter,  as  far  as 
Fabre  is  concerned,  the  favourable  verdict  of 
his  peers  is  surrounded  by  hardly  fewer 
guarantees  of  impartiality  in  France  than 
abroad,  for  this  worthy  son  of  the  Rouergue 
has  never  been  of  those  who  seek  to  obtain 
honours  by  any  of  the  means  that  achieve 
success  through  intrigue  or  influence,  and  we 
may  without  paradox  say  that  it  is  farther 
from  his  village  to  Paris  than  from  Paris  to 
London ;  from  obscurity  in  his  village  to 
fame  in  Paris  than  from  fame  in  Paris  to 
fame  in  London  and  other  capitals. 

Nevertheless,  legitimately  acquired  and 
well  founded  though  it  might  be,  Fabre's 
great  scientific  reputation  had  hardly  extended 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  academies  and  the 
somewhat  restricted  circle  of  professional 
biologists  and  naturalists,  or  that  of  a  few 
359 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

amateurs  who  were  better  informed  than 
their  fellows,  or  more  perspicacious  in  the 
choice  of  their  reading. 

Was  it  not  just  to  exhibit,  beyond  this 
circle  of  initiates,  achievements  that  be- 
longed to  all  and  had  all  the  qualities 
requisite  for  popularity?  Was  it  not  right 
to  draw  this  great  man  out  of  the  obscurity 
in  which  he  had  so  long  shut  himself  up,  and 
at  last  to  place  this  distinguished  figure  on 
the  magnificent  pedestal  built  up  by  half  a 
century's  work  of  the  highest  value,  and  the 
greater  part  of  a  century  of  a  poor  and 
laborious  life?  So  thought  the  friends  and 
admirers  of  the  hermit  of  Serignan,  who  or- 
ganised, last  year,  the  celebration  of  his 
jubilee,  and,  in  the  Press,  cited  him  in  the 
order  of  the  day. 

These  celebrations  took  place  in  the  fa- 
miliar rustic  setting  so  dear  to  the  aged  scien- 
tist. It  was  a  morning  of  April,  in  the  little 
village  of  Vaucluse  which  we  need  not  name, 
at  the  edge  of  the  enclosure  where  for  more 
than  forty  years  he  has  kept  rendezvous 
with  his  insects,  on  the  threshold  of  the  house 
that  shelters  his  studious  retirement.  The 
venerable  naturalist  was  there,  surrounded 
by  the  members  of  his  beloved  family,  his 
constant  collaborators,  with  whose  names  he 

360 


A  Great  Preparation 

loved  to  sprinkle  the  pages  of  his  books.  To 
greet  him  came  the  worthy  folk  of  Serignan, 
justly  proud  of  him,  his  friends  from  far  and 
near,  and  the  delegates  of  the  learned  so- 
cieties of  France  and  foreign  countries,  with 
whom  the  representatives  of  the  State,  the 
Sub-prefect  of  Orange  and  the  Prefect  of 
Avignon,  had  the  good  taste  to  associate 
themselves. 

At  the  moment  when  an  unexpected  ray  of 
sunlight  filtered  through  the  clouds  like  a 
caress  and  a  benediction  from  Heaven  upon 
the  head  of  the  old  scientist,  ever  faithful  to 
the  call  of  the  Power  on  high,  France  and 
Sweden,  to  mention  only  the  most  eager, 
joined  in  crowning  him  with  laurels;  France 
offering  him  a  magnificent  gold  plaque  in  the 
name  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and 
Sweden  the  Linnaean  Medal  in  the  name  of 
the  Royal  Academy  of  Stockholm.  France — 
or  rather,  the  Academic  Franchise — has 
since  then  offered  a  further  evidence  of  her 
admiration  by  granting  him  the  largest  of 
its  money  prizes  and  unanimously  recom- 
mending him  to  the  jury  entrusted  with  the 
award  of  the  Nobel  Prize. 

There  are  seldom  fetes  without  banquets 
or  banquets  without  speeches.  Among  the 
speeches  delivered  at  Serignan  at  the  banquet 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

of  April  3rd,  we  must  at  least  mention  M. 
Perrier's,  from  which  we  give  an  extract  on 
the  first  page  of  this  book.  It  may  be  found 
in  extenso  in  the  Revue  scientifique  for  the 
7th  of  May,  1910.  The  series  of  toasts  was 
followed  by  the  reading  of  numerous  tele- 
grams of  congratulation,  the  most  loudly 
applauded  of  these  being  that  of  M.  Edmond 
Rostand,  which  ran  as  follows: 

Prevented  from  being  in  your  midst,  I  am  never- 
theless in  spirit  with  those  who  are  to-day  honour- 
ing a  man  worthy  of  all  admiration,  one  of  the 
purest  glories  of  France,  the  great  scientist  whose 
work  I  admire,  the  profound  and  racy  poet,  the 
Virgil  of  the  insects,  who  has  brought  us  to  our 
knees  in  the  grass,  the  hermit  whose  life  is  the  most 
wonderful  example  of  wisdom,  the  noble  figure 
that,  under  its  black  felt  hat,  makes  Serignan  the 
complement  of  Maillane. 

It  must  be  recorded  that  Maillane  had 
cordially  united  with  Serignan,  and  that 
poetry  and  science  were  at  one  in  celebrating 
the  fame  of  the  man  who  has  justly  been 
called  the  poet  of  entomology. 

Such,  in  its  most  salient  features,  was  the 
festival  which  consecrated,  a  little  late  in  the 
day,  one  of  our  purest  national  glories. 

This  homage  had  not  the  ephemeral  char- 
acter of  most  jubilees,  even  scientific  ones.  It 
362 


A  Great  Preparation 

found  more  than  one  echo,  and  had  an  after- 
math throughout  the  country.  We  will  not 
insist  further  upon  the  eager,  enthusiastic 
interest  extended  by  the  public  to  the  new 
edition  of  the  Souvenirs,  and  the  publication 
of  La  Vie  des  Insectes  and  Les  Maeurs  des 
Insectes,  which  are  volumes  of  selected  ex- 
tracts from  the  Souvenirs,  nor  even  on  the 
decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  which 
so  justly  raised  to  the  rank  of  officer  him  who 
had  been  a  simple  chevalier  for  forty  years. 

But  we  must  refer  at  somewhat  greater 
length  to  the  three  proofs  of  admiration 
which  must  have  found  their  way  most  surely 
to  his  heart. 

The  first,  to  which  we  have  already 
alluded,  came  from  the  highest  literary  au- 
thority of  France,  and,  we  might  say,  of  the 
world.  In  his  report  on  the  literary  prizes 
awarded  by  the  Academic  Franchise,  M. 
Thureau-Dangui  devoted  the  following  pas- 
sage to  our  friend: 

I  have  reserved  to  the  last  the  largest  of  our 
direct  prizes,  the  Nee  prize,  awarded  to  the  author 
of  the  Souvenirs  entomologiques,  M.  Jean-Henri 
Fabre.  He  cannot,  at  all  events,  be  accused  of  in- 
discreet solicitation.  In  his  hermitage  at  Serignan, 
where  he  has  pursued  a  long  life  of  toil,  a  life  so 
modest  that  despite  the  most  wonderful  discov- 
363 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

cries  it  was  for  a  long  time  a  life  of  obscurity,  M. 
Fabre  gave  not  a  thought  to  the  Academic  Fran- 
c.aise,  which  is  all  the  better  pleased  to  show  that  it 
was  thinking  of  him. 

M.  Fabre  has,  indeed,  too  clear  a  vision  and  too 
sane  a  mind  not  to  perceive  the  problems  of  a 
philosophical  order  which  arise  from  the  wonder- 
ful data  of  his  discoveries.  At  every  step,  in  the 
mysterious  domain  of  instinct,  reason  cannot  fail 
to  divine,  beyond  the  little  kingdom  explored  by 
observation,  the  unfathomable  secrets  of  creation. 

To  all,  even  to  those  who  believe  themselves 
least  interested  in  matters  of  natural  history,  I  can- 
not refrain  from  saying:  "Read  these  narratives; 
you  will  appreciate  their  charm,  their  geniality, 
their  simplicity,  their  life;  you  will  fall  in  love 
with  this  delightful  science,  which  is  pursued  day 
after  day  in  the  beautiful  summer  weather,  "  to  the 
song  of  the  Cicadae;"  this  science  which  is  truly 
Latin,  Virgilian  at  times,  which  goes  hand  in  hand 
with  poetry,  which  is  so  imbued  with  love  that  it 
sometimes  seems  as  though  there  arose,  from  these 
humble  entomological  souvenirs,  a  strophe  of  the 
canticle  of  created  things.1 

A  mark  of  homage,  which,  indeed,  adds 
nothing  to  the  fame  of  the  celebrated  laureate 
of  the  Institute  and  so  many  other  learned 
Academies,  but  which  deserves  mention  here 
because  it  certainly  touched  a  fibre  of  the  old 
scientist's  heart  which  all  the  rest  might  have 

1  Session  of  the  8th  December  1910. 
364 


A  Great  Preparation 

failed  to  stir,  is  that  which  was  accorded  him 
by  the  little  Society  which  gathers  about  the 
belfry  of  Rodez  the  intellectual  elite  of  his 
own  country-side. 

The  records  of  the  Socle te  des  lettres,  sci- 
ences et  arts  de  I'Aveyron  contain,  in  the  min- 
utes of  the  session  of  the  zyth  October  1910, 
a  communication  from  the  president  of  the 
Society  which  closes  with  the  words : 

In  order  to  associate  ourselves  in  some  fashion 
with  the  unanimous  bestowal  of  honours  and  eulogy 
of  which  this  venerable  old  man  is  at  present  the 
recipient,  we  propose  to  accord  him  the  title  of 
honorary  member.  It  is  the  highest  distinction  at 
our  disposal,  and  we  think  he  will  accept  it  with 
sympathy. 

Needless  to  say  that  the  whole  assembly 
accepted  their  president's  proposal  with  en- 
thusiasm and  by  acclamation.  Some  time 
later  the  famous  naturalist  wrote  to  the  So- 
ciety, through  his  present  biographer,  a 
touching  letter  of  thanks,  in  which  he  said, 
among  other  things,  that,  coming  from  his 
own  country,  this  distinction  had  been  very 
precious  to  him.  The  delicate  feeling  ex- 
pressed in  these  words  gives  us  to  hope  that 
the  contribution  to  the  work  of  reparation 
which  we  have  sought  to  make  will  not  be 
without  some  value  in  his  eyes. 
365 


I 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  LAST  HEIGHTS  *   (1910-1915) 
I 

N  the  year  1910  Fame  flung  the  gate  of 

the  harmas  wide  open.  Coming  late,  she 
seemed  anxious  to  repair  her  long  neglect. 

The  process  of  reparation  continued.  It 
grew  fuller,  more  marked,  and  burst  into  a 
splendid  apotheosis  during  the  following 
years. 

Scientists  as  a  class  had  accused  Fabre  of 
mixing  up  Horace  and  Virgil  with  his  en- 
tomological adventures.  He  was  despised 
for  quoting  these  authors;  he  was  placed 
upon  the  Index  for  introducing  grace  and  pas- 
sion into  studies  which  officially  were  dry 
and  cold  as  statistics.  But  in  joining  the 
Academie  Francaise  on  the  occasion  of  the 
jubilee  of  1910,  the  Academie  des  Sciences 
gloriously  avenged  this  unjust  and  Phari- 
saical disdain. 

But  there  were  yet  some  of  "  time's  re- 

1This  chapter  was  written  by  the   Abbe   Fabre   espe- 
cially for  the  English  edition.— B.  M. 
366 


The  Last  Heights 

venges  "  to  be  taken  for  the  injustice  which 
Fabre  had  suffered. 

We  have  spoken  of  his  early  struggles  in 
the  University,  of  his  career,  first  hampered, 
then  shattered,  of  the  jealousies  and  persecu- 
tions evoked  by  this  "  irregular  "  self-taught 
pioneer;  no  doubt  the  work  of  a  triumphant 
clique,  which  eventually  drove  him  from  the 
house  and  slammed  the  door.  This  was,  as 
the  reader  may  remember,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  lecture  to  young  girls  at  Saint- 
Martial. 

But  now,  on  the  23rd  of  April  1911,  a 
fresh  invasion  of  young  girls,  almost  all 
pupils  of  the  University,  burst  into  the 
harmas.1  And  what  had  they  to  say?  That 
they  came  from  Paris  to  visit  the  glories  of 
Provence,  and  that  next  to  Mistral  they  had 
wished  to  see  Fabre,  after  the  "  emperor  of 
poetry,"  the  "  king  of  science,"  and  they  made 
it  clear  that  it  was  not  only  to  the  scientist, 
but  still  more  to  the  pioneer,  the  initiator — 
or  why  not  say,  with  them,  to  the  most 
illustrious  of  "  cronies "  2 — that  the  girl 
"  cronies,"  as  they  called  one  another  in  their 
group,  had  come  to  present  their  heart-felt 

1  This  was  the  pilgrimage  of  the  young  girls  of  the 
Universite  des  Annales  politiques  et  litleraires. 

-  The  French  words  are  "  Cousins,""  Cousines."  Cousin 
trcousin,  good  friend,  crony. — B.  M. 

367 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

homage.  Who  to-day  would  dare  to  contest 
their  right  to  become  his  pupils,  to  seek  with 
him  "  the  freshest  honey  and  the  most  poeti- 
cal observations  of  the  insects  that  people 
the  boughs  and  the  flowers,"  to  enter  with 
him  into  the  secret  of  all  these  little  lives, 
"  which  are,  like  ourselves,"  they  said, 
"  creatures  of  the  good  God  "  ? 

And  serious  personages l  from  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  Academic  and  the  Universite  de 
France  lent  voice  and  gesture  to  the  ingenu- 
ous utterance  of  radiant  youth,  which  de- 
lightfully made  amends  for  the  past. 

There  was  another  official  authority,  the 
highest  of  all,  to  which  Fabre  had  not  much 
reason  to  be  grateful.  Long  and  brilliant 
services  in  the  cause  of  public  instruction, 
scientific  works  of  the  highest  order,  need 
of  leisure  and  resources  for  his  investiga- 
tions, family  responsibilities,  and  the  struggle 
for  life — what  claims  did  not  these  represent 
to  distinction  and  to  the  generosity  of  the 
public  authorities !  But  what  part  or  lot  had 
he  in  these  in  reality?  One  might  almost 
say  none.  One  day,  as  though  by  chance,  the 
perspicacity  of  a  Minister  of  the  Empire  had 
all  but  rescued  him  from  poverty  and  ob- 
livion. A  mere  accident  without  sequence: 

1  Jules  Claretie,  Jean  Richepin,  Adolphe  Brisson,  etc. 
368 


The  Last  Heights 

for  it  was  immediately  followed  by  the  total 
collapse  of  the  Empire  and  the  institution  of 
the  Republic.  Fabre  was  not  even  among 
the  number  of  the  pensioned! 

It  needed  the  trumpet-blast  of  the  jubilee 
(1910)  to  remind  the  authorities  to  com- 
plete the  beau  geste  of  Victor  Duruy,  and 
after  forty  years  to  replace  the  rosette  of  the 
Legion  of  the  Cross.  And  it  took  the  loud 
outcry  of  indignation  uttered  by  Mistral  and 
the  strong  feeling  aroused  by  the  report, 
which  was  echoed  by  the  whole  Press,  of 
their  involuntary  debt  to  the  ex-professor,  to 
obtain  for  the  nonagenarian  a  pension  of  two 
thousand  francs  (£80)  a  year,  which  was 
nearly  fifty  years  in  arrears ! 

The  reparation  was  far  from  adequate; 
but  it  could  not  be  made  by  means  of  money. 

"  Come  at  once,  or  I  will  have  my  gen- 
darmes bring  you."  In  summoning  him  thus 
to  the  Court  in  order  to  see  and  decorate  this 
fine  but  timid  genius,  the  Emperor,  in  1869, 
had  performed  a  generous  action.  The 
President  of  the  Republic  did  still  better, 
when,  in  1913,  in  the  course  of  his  tour 
through  Provence,  he  sought  to  honour  by  his 
visit  him  who  had  so  greatly  honoured  his 
mother-country  and  his  native  and  adopted 
provinces. 

369 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

Fabre,  who  was  then  in  his  ninetieth  year, 
and  could  no  longer  stand  upright,  awaited 
M.  Poincare  sitting  in  a  chair  before  the 
threshold  of  his  house,  surrounded  by  his 
family;  on  his  right  hand  stood  the  Sister 
who  was  watching  over  his  welfare. 

A  week  before  the  President's  visit,  1  went 
to  Serignan  to  see  my  distinguished  relative 
and  to  bless  the  marriage  of  his  son  Paul 
Henri. 

In  the  familiar  intimacy  of  this  family 
celebration  he  told  me,  as  a  piece  of  good 
news:  "It  is  possible  that  I  shall  soon  re- 
ceive a  visit  from  Monseigneur  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Avignon."  He  said  this  with  a 
marked  satisfaction  which  was  very  unlike 
his  usual  detachment. 

I  understood  at  once  that  his  mind  was 
harking  back  to  the  evil  days  of  1 870  and  con- 
trasting them  with  the  present.  What  did 
not  happen  in  that  disastrous  year?  Victor 
Duruy  had  just  instituted  courses  of  lectures 
for  adults  in  order  to  make  up  for  the  de- 
ficiencies of  popular  education.  Young  girls 
were  especially  invited  to  these  lectures.  On 
the  pretext  of  opening  the  golden  doors  of 
science  to  them  it  was  hoped — no  mystery 
has  been  made  of  the  matter  since — to 
emanicipate  them  from  the  tutelage  of  the 
370 


The  Last  Heights 

clergy,"  1  to  remove  them  from,  or  to  dis- 
pute, the  influence  of  the  Church.  The 
scientist,  enamoured  of  the  beauty  of  natural 
history,  saw  in  this  venture  merely  an  oppor- 
tunity for  diffusing  the  knowledge  and  appre- 
ciation of  his  science  among  the  people.  Ac- 
cordingly he  opened  a  course  of  evening 
lectures  in  the  old  Abbey  of  Saint-Martial. 
And  in  the  crowd  that  flocked  eagerly  to  hear 
him  beneath  the  vaulted  roof  of  the  old  dis- 
affected church  were  squads  of  young  girls, 
more  numerous  at  every  lecture,  enchanted  by 
the  magic  of  his  teaching,  by  its  lucidity  and 
vitality.  Who  could  object  to  such  a  suc- 
cess? Yet  there  were  those  who  objected. 
A  perfect  cross-fire  of  criticism  and  complaint 
arose  from  the  Church  and  the  University. 
Fabre  replied  fearlessly,  not  without  a  touch 
of  offended  pride.  The  quarrel  became 
embittered.  Some  went  so  far  as  to  denounce 
him  publicly  and  to  point  out,  from  the  van- 
tage of  the  pulpit,  the  dangers  of  his  teach- 
ing. Shortly  afterwards  the  municipality 
dismissed  him  from  his  office  as  conservator 
of  the  Musee  Requien,  without  regard  to  his 
family  responsibilities,  which  were  then  con- 
siderable. 

When  he  visited  Fabre  in  1914  Monseig- 

1  E.  Lavisse,  quoted  by  Dr.  Legros,  op.  cit.,  p.  81. 
371 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

neur  Latty  was  fully  aware  of  these  proceed- 
ings, and  of  the  exodus  which  followed  them, 
and  also  of  the  painful  impression  which  it 
had  produced  upon  Fabre,  and  the  bitter- 
sweet reflections  to  which  it  still  at  times 
gave  rise.  Did  the  eminent  prelate  approach 
the  illustrious  old  scientist  bearing  an  olive 
branch  as  well  as  the  golden  laurel  ?  I  do  not 
know;  but  the  fact  is  that  this  first  interview 
was  quickly  followed  by  a  second,  which  was 
still  more  friendly,  and  from  that  moment 
Fabre  never  again  spoke  of  and  did  not  seem 
even  to  remember  the  privations  of  the  past. 
One  reflection  naturally  occurs  to  us  here, 
and  it  is  rather  an  attempt  to  be  just  than  a 
plea  pro  domo.  Because  once  in  his  life  the 
great  naturalist  was  confronted  by  the  hos- 
tility of  certain  persons  belonging  to  the 
world  of  religion,  need  we  erase  from  his 
carefully  secularised  history  all  that  connects 
him  with  the  Church,  from  the  motherly  ca- 
resses of  the  "  holy  woman  "  who  assuaged 
his  first  griefs  to  the  tender  care  of  the 
worthy  Sister  who  consoled  his  last  suffer- 
ings? Must  we  forget  that  he  was  admitted 
as  pupil-teacher  to  the  lycee  at  Rodez,  as 
pupil  to  the  seminary  of  Toulouse  and  the 
Normal  College  of  Avignon  on  the  recom- 
mendation of  M.  1'Abbe  d'Aiguillon-Pujol, 
372 


The  Last  Heights 

his  old  Rodez  headmaster?  Are  we  to  say 
nothing  of  his  articles  in  the  Revue  scien- 
tifique  of  Brussels,  one  of  the  principal 
organs  of  Catholic  science,  or  of  his  very 
important  contributions  to  the  classic  series 
published  under  the  editorship  of  M.  1'Abbe 
Combes?  If  we  are,  rightly,  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  smallest  details  of  his  life  and 
all  that  concerns  him,  are  we  to  say  nothing 
of  his  friendly  relations  with  his  cure  *  or  of 
the  religious  practices  of  his  family  and 
household,  or  of  his  generous  participation 
in  all  the  works  of  charity  in  his  parish,  not 
excepting  the  free  school? 

"  Neither  of  Armagnac  nor  a  Burgun- 
dian";  neither  secular  nor  clerical.  The 
truth  is  that  if  we  consider  the  matter  can- 
didly, without  bandaging  our  eyes  and  with- 
out exclusive  prejudice,  Fabre  should  serve 
as  a  bond  of  union  rather  than  a  bone  of 
contention. 

The  ex-Director  of  the  Beaux-Arts,  Henry 
Roujon,  who  was  a  fervant  apostle  of  na- 
tional concord,  used  to  say:  "Statutes  are 
only  lastingly  beautiful  if  the  sons  of  the 
same  mother  can  inaugurate  them  without 
railing  at  one  another." 

Fabre,  according  to  this  maxim,  might  well 

1  M.   1'Abbe  Germain,   ex-cure  of  Serignan. 

373 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

have  statues  erected  to  him.  And  speaking 
of  statues,  we  must  not,  having  mentioned  the 
orators,  forget  the  artists.  All  the  illus- 
trated periodicals  had  already  popularised 
the  original,  eloquent  physiognomy  of  our 
hero.  This  was  too  ephemeral  a  homage  for 
his  admirers.  His  features  must  be  chiselled 
in  marble  and  exposed  under  the  blue  sky  to 
the  delighted  and  affectionate  eyes  of  his  com- 
patriots. Provence  was  the  first  to  propose 
the  idea.  Le  Rouergue  followed.  Avignon, 
Orange,  and  Serignan  each  wanted  their 
monument.  Saint-Leons  profited  by  its  right 
of  seniority  to  take  precedence  of  Rodez  and 
Maillane. 

"  Nous  voulions  te  feter  vivant 
Doux  patriarche  et  grand  savant, 
Et  fier  amant  de  la  nature, 
Et  le  Rouergue  ou  tu  nacquis 
Et  la  Provence  ou  tu  conquis 
Le  laurier  d'or  qui  toujours  dure.1 

(We  wished  to  honour  you  living, 

Gentle  patriarch  and  great  scientist, 

And  proud  lover  of  Nature, 

Both  Le  Rouergue  where  you  were  born, 

And  Provence  where  you  won 

The  golden  laurel  that  lasts  for  ever.) 

1  Francois    Fabie. 

374 


The  Last  Heights 

The  first  subscription-list  was  opened  by 
the  Normal  College  of  Avignon,  and  a  spe- 
cial appeal  was  made  to  the  schoolmasters  of 
Vaucluse  and  the  rest  of  France.  Other  ap- 
peals were  addressed  to  all  without  distinc- 
tion, and  the  subscriptions  flowed  in  from  all 
sides,  from  scientists  and  men  of  letters, 
priests  and  schoolmasters,  bourgeois  and 
workers  in  town  and  country,  to  whom  it  was 
explained  that  the  statue  was  in  honour  of 
one  of  themselves  who  had  achieved  great- 
ness by  his  labours. 

He  himself,  in  his  modesty,  wished  all  to 
regard  him  only  as  a  diligent  student. 

"  Master,"  ventured  an  intimate  of  the 
harmas  one  day,  "  they  are  talking  of  putting 
up  a  statue  of  you  close  by  here." 

"  Well,  well !  I  shall  see  myself,  but  shall 
I  recognise  myself?  I've  had  so  little  time 
for  looking  at  myself!  " 

"  What  inscription  would  you  prefer?  " 

"  One  word:  Laboremus." 

What  lesson  was  ever  more  necessary  than 
this  eloquent  reminder  of  the  great  law  of 
labour!  But  this  grand  old  man,  who  by 
labour  has  achieved  fame,  teaches  us  yet  an- 
other lesson  of  even  rarer  quality. 

Let  us  hear  him  confiding  his  impressions 
to  a  friend:  "The  Mayor  of  Serignan,  it 
375 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

seems,  proposes  to  erect  a  bust  of  me.  At 
this  very  moment  I  have,  staying  in  the  house, 
the  sculptor  Charpentier,  who  is  making  my 
statue  for  a  monument  they  are  going  to  set 
up  in  the  Normal  College  of  Avignon.  In 
my  opinion  there's  a  good  deal  of  the  beauti- 
ful saints  about  it!  "  x 

This  reminds  us  of  a  remark  whispered 
into  a  neighbour's  ear  on  the  occasion  of  the 
jubilee  celebrations,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
fashionable  folk  by  whom  he  was  sur- 
rounded :  "  I  must  be  very  queer  to  look  at !  " 

Here  is  a  more  sober  if  not  more  weighty 
remark.  One  day  some  one  was  reminding 
him,  in  my  presence,  of  all  the  marks  of 
honour  lavished  upon  him  during  his  last  two 
days.  I  heard  him  reply  quickly  with  the  fa- 
mous apostrophe :  Maratorrj^  ^araiorrfrcov, 
nal  ndvra  fitaTaidrrfS.* 

He  had  another  manner,  perhaps  still  more 
expressive,  of  rendering  the  same  idea:  he 
would  puff  into  the  air  a  cloud  of  smoke  from 
his  pipe,  which  never  left  him,  and,  before 

1  In  Provence,  as  in  Italy,  the  plaster  statues  sold  by 
itinerant  Italians  are  known  as  santi  belli  =  beautiful 
saints.— B.   M. 

2  The  text  is  from  Ecclesiastes,  i.  2 :  "  Vanity  of  van- 
ities, all   is  vanity,"  but  Fabre  cites   it  according  to  the 
Discours   contre  Eutrope,   in   which  he   had    learnt   it   at 
school,    alluding    to    the    appropriate    reflection    of    Saint 
John    Chrysostom:    "A«  pev,   pakinra  Zevnve  ^xaLP°v  eiiretv: 
uaraidrtif,    etc.       (Semper    quidem,    nunc    vero    maxime 
opportunum  est  dicere:     Vanitas,  etc. 


The  Last  Heights 

the  blue  vanishing  spiral :    "  That,"  he  would 
say,  "  is  human  glory !  " 

Here  we  recognise  the  man  whom  Rostand 
represented  as  follows  in  the  verses  inscribed 
upon  a  bas-relief  which  makes  his  collection 
of  sonnets,  entitled  Fabre-des-Insectes,  as  it 
were  the  pendant  of  Charpentier's  monu- 
ment: 

"  C'est  un  homme  incline,  modeste  et  magistral, 
Pensif — car  dans  ses  doigts  il  a  tenu  des  ailes 
Poursuivant  les  honneurs  moins  que  les  sauterelles." 

(A  man  who  stoops,  modest  and  magisterial, 
Thoughtful — for  in  his  fingers  he  has  held  wings, 
Pursuing  honours  less  than  the  grasshoppers.) 


II 

The  fine  and  unusual  qualities  of  Fabre's 
career  consist  in  this;  he  has  attained  fame 
while  seeking  nothing  but  truth :  and  what  a 
truth! — the  truth  concealed  in  the  humblest 
of  created  things  1 

Before  Fabre's  time  entomology  was  a 
poor  little  science,  with  no  savour  of  life  or 
freshness  about  it,  without  a  ray  of  sunshine, 
without  a  soul;  like  those  poor  little  insects 
under  glass  or  stuck  on  pins,  which  it  was  its 
mission  to  study. 

In  his  hands  and  in  his  books,  as  though  by 
377 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

magic,  entomology  became  truly  a  living  sci- 
ence, provided  with  wings — the  wings  of 
imagination  and  poetry,  of  thought  and 
philosophy. 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  dense  materialism 
of  the  "  dust-to-dust  "  scientists  who  content 
themselves  with  dissecting  poor  little  mur- 
dered bodies  to  the  winged  spiritualism  of 
this  open-air  entomologist,  interrogating  with 
his  bright,  loving  glance  these  little  insect 
souls,  at  once  so  wonderful  and  so  uncon- 
scious. And  they  all  tell  him  the  same 
thing:  Ipse  fecit  nos  et  non  ipsi  nos.1  (It  is 
He  that  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves.) 

Some  one  has  said,  and  it  is  a  saying  worth 
repeating,  so  just  and  admirable  is  it,  and  so 
characteristic  of  the  man  and  his  work: 
With  Fabre  we  have  every  moment,  so  to 
speak,  the  feeling,  the  surprise,  of  rising  to- 
ward the  infinitely  great  while  stooping  over 
the  infinitely  little. 

Of  this  scientist,  this  philosopher,  whose 
mind  soars  so  readily  from  the  "  little 
things  "  to  the  great,  to  the  "  very  great," 
from  the  little  curiosities  of  observation  to 
the  great  problems  that  are  to  be  encountered 
in  the  higher  domains  of  thought,  his  friends 
conceived  the  idea  of  demanding  a  synthesis 

1  Psalm  too,  verse  3. 

378 


The  Last  Heights 

of  the  reflections  scattered  through  the  pages 
of  the  Souvenirs. 
This  was  his  reply: 

Because  I  have  shifted  a  few  grains  of  sand  upon 
the  shore,  am  I  in  a  position  to  understand  the 
abysmal  depths  of  the  ocean?  Life  has  unfathom- 
able secrets.  Human  knowledge  will  be  erased 
from  the  world's  archives  before  we  know  the  last 
word  concerning  a  gnat. 

Thus  the  Homer,  the  Plato  of  the  insects. 
He  is  utterly  unassuming.  He  will  not  allow 
his  admirers  to  impose  upon  him.  He  does 
not  allow  himself  to  be  snared  by  the  lure  of 
vivid,  brilliant  language,  nor  by  the  intoxicat- 
ing problems  of  inner  truths  whose  surface 
he  grazes.  According  to  him  the  sum  of  all 
his  work  has  been  but  to  "  shift  a  few  grains 
of  sand  upon  the  shore  "  of  knowledge,  and 
it  is  useless  for  him  to  endeavour  to  sound 
the  mysteries  of  life;  he  has  not  even 
learned — he  does  not  even  think  it  possible  to 
human  knowledge  to  learn — "  the  last  word 
concerning  a  gnat." 

Does  this  imply  that  he  has  relapsed  into 
scepticism;  that  finally,  in  despair,  he  re- 
nounces the  ambition  of  his  whole  life,  vitam 
impendtre  vero?  By  no  means.  He  has 
striven  to  attain  it  even  beyond  his  strength. 
379 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

When  he  considers  himself  incapable  of 
adding  further  volumes  to  his  work  he  busies 
himself  with  preparing  a  definitive  edition, 
and  in  a  touching  farewell  to  his  beloved 
studies  he  declares  that  they  are  so  full  of 
charm  and  unexplored  marvels  that  could  he 
live  several  lives  he  would  devote  them  all  to 
them  without  ever  succeeding  in  "  exhausting 
their  interest." 

There  we  have  Fabre.  After  labouring  all 
his  life  without  troubling  about  fame,  plough- 
ing his  straight  furrow  like  his  peasant  fore- 
bears, like  them,  when  the  night  has  come,  he 
simply  binds  his  sheaves  with  a  humble  and 
profound  realisation  of  the  narrow  limits  of 
his  work  as  compared  with  the  immensity  of 
the  world  and  the  infinite  mystery  of  things. 

It  is  a  fine  spectacle,  that  of  the  entomolo- 
gist on  the  summits  of  science,  as  of  fame, 
raising  himself,  by  his  humility,  above  both, 
and  fully  prepared,  to  return  to  Him  toward 
whom  aspire  those  souls  that  have  attained 
the  limit  of  human  climbing: 

O   Jesu  corona  celsior 
Et  veritas  sublimlor. 

Ill 

Neither  science  nor   fame  could  prevent 
him  from  suffering.     To  begin  with,  there  is 
380 


The  Last  Heights 

suffering  attaching  to  these,  for  all  labour  has 
its  burden,  all  light  its  shadow. 

This  none  knew  better  than  he  whose 
genius  was  a  protracted  patience  and  his  life 
a  hard-fought  battle.  And  as  though  it  was 
his  destiny  to  suffer  to  the  end,  he  did  suffer 
still  when  the  tardy  hour  of  his  fame  had 
struck.  Was  it  not  an  ordeal  still  to  be  as- 
sailed by  visits  and  speeches  when  "  nothing 
was  left  but  rest  and  silence  "  ?  How  can  a 
man  delight  in  the  incense  of  his  admirers 
when  he  is  broken  with  fatigue? 

To  express  this  contrast,  to  show  that  all 
was  not  unmixed  joy  in  these  flattering  visits 
to  the  patriarch  of  Serignan,  I  will  borrow 
the  delicate  brush  of  an  artist  friend  of 
Fabre's: 

Night  falls  upon  Serignan,  serene,  limpid,  vio- 
let and  amethyst.  The  sounds  of  day  fade  one  by 
one.  Still  a  few  distant  hoots  from  the  horns  of 
motor-cars  flying  along  the  dusty  roads,  or  the 
sound  of  a  dog  baying  the  new  moon,  which  shows 
its  slender  sickle  on  the  horizon;  sometimes,  too, 
as  though  to  eclipse  the  first  stars,  a  rocket  roars,  a 
prelude  to  the  fireworks  which  are  about  to  con- 
clude the  apotheosis.  .  .  .  J.  H.  Fabre,  the  hero  of 
the  fete,  the  lover  of  the  Sphex,  the  Mantis,  the 
Dung-beetle,  is  very  tired.  Think  of  it — ninety  years 
of  age,  and  almost  ninety  years  of  labour!  .  .  .  and 
381 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

a  world-wide  reputation  to  sustain  .  .  .  and  visits 
to  receive.  Xo-day  it  was  the  visit  of  a  Minister 
and  all  the  flies  on  the  ministerial  wheel.  And  he 
had  to  return  thanks,  feeling  upon  him  the  eyes  of 
the  reporters  and  the  photographer's  lens.  What 
an  ordeal!  Fabre  can  hold  out  no  longer!  .  .  . 

Do  you  not  feel  that  the  harvest  of  fame  at 
ninety  years  of  age  and  after  almost  ninety 
years  of  labour  is  perhaps  even  more  painful 
than  the  harvest  of  science  in  the  ardour  of 
youth  ? 

Meditating  upon  his  history,  with  its  full 
days  and  hours,  Fabie,  in  a  delightful  flight 
of  imagination,  shows  us  the  harassed  en- 
tomologist escaping  from  the  past  to  find 
himself  alone  with  his  thoughts  and  his  be- 
loved insects.  "  He  slips  silently  to  the  gate 
of  his  harmas.  There  he  lies  down  on  a  bank 
thickly  carpeted  with  lavender  and  withered 
couch-grass "...  A  few  moments  pass. 
His  children  intervene :  "  he  is  relaxing  him- 
self, stretching  himself,  soothed,  happy  as  a 
little  child. — *  But,  father,  you  aren't  think- 
ing! When  the  dew  is  falling!'  'Ah,  my 
children,  why  did  you  wake  me  ?  I  was  hav- 
ing such  a  beautiful  dream ! '  For  in  his 
sleep  he  had  entered  into  conversation  with 
the  crickets  of  his  native  country-side." 

Fatigue  of  the  body,  weariness  of  the  mind, 
382 


The  Last  Heights 

and  a  breaking  heart!  Suffering  pressed 
closely  upon  him  at  the  close  of  his  days. 

"  It  is  better  to  be  loved  than  to  be  cele- 
brated," said  Aubanel,  the  delicate  poet  of 
Avignon.  As  long  as  Fabre  had  beside  him 
his  beloved  brother,  his  adored  wife,  and  his 
darling  children,  he  was  at  least  conscious  of 
a  kindly  atmosphere  of  memories,  and  of 
tenderness  that  made  up  for  what  he  lacked 
and  helped  him  to  endure  his  afflictions  with 
serene  resignation. 

But  now,  little  by  little,  there  came  a  void 
about  him.  Death  has  its  surprises  and  life 
its  demands. 

With  the  death  of  his  wife,  in  July  1912, 
half  his  own  soul  died.  With  that  of  his 
brother,  in  1913,  his  life  was  almost  wholly 
shattered,  crushed,  buried  in  the  tomb. 

With  the  marriage  of  the  last  of  his  sons 
and  his  two  youngest  daughters  almost  all  the 
life  of  the  house,  all  the  caressing  grace  of 
light,  considerate  footfalls,  of  clear  tender 
voices,  of  smiles  and  kisses,  had  forsaken  the 
old  man,  to  return  only  in  passing  and  at  dis- 
tant intervals.  His  isolation  became  more 
and  more  complete. 

Was  all  over?  No,  this  was  hardly  the 
beginning  of  his  afflictions.  In  the  great 
silence  of  the  harmas  there  burst  of  a  sudden 
383 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  terrible  thunderclap  of  war  which  roused 
to  a  protest  of  intolerable  grief  the  uttermost 
fibres  of  his  being. 

The  whole  man  suffered.  The  French- 
man, to  see  his  beloved  country  the  victim  of 
the  brutal  and  underhand  aggression  of  a 
predatory  nation:  the  father  to  see  his  dear 
children,  a  son  and  two  sons-in-law,  cast  into 
the  furnace;  the  idealist  and  the  great- 
hearted man  who  had  held  war  to  be  a  relic 
of  barbarism,  doomed  to  disappear  from 
the  annals  of  the  human  race,  to  see  war  de- 
clared, and  spreading  with  the  violence  of  a 
conflagration,  surpassing  in  horror  all  that 
history  tells  us  of  the  armed  conflicts  of  the 
past. 

Before  the  bloody  vision  of  the  battle- 
fields, how  should  he  not  feel  shaken  to  the 
depths  of  his  being  by  the  tremors  of  a  ter- 
rible anger  and  a  vast  pity,  he  who  had 
never  been  able  to  see  an  insect  suffering 
without  a  pang  at  the  heart? 

True,  in  his  incomparable  Iliad,  the 
Homer  of  the  Insects  had  often  described 
creatures  that  hunt  one  another,  kill  one  an- 
other, devour  one  another  with  indescribable 
ardour  and  ferocity,  and  he  knew  that  he 
had  only  written  a  chapter  of  that  "  struggle 
for  life  "  which  is  to  be  found  on  every  step 
384 


The  Last  Heights 

of  the  biological  ladder,  with  the  same  dis- 
regard of  weakness  and  suffering. 

But  he  would  fain  have  seen  man  assert 
his  superiority  over  the  animals  by  repress- 
ing these  instincts,  which  come  from  below, 
by  the  free  flight  of  the  aspirations  vouch- 
safed from  above,  by  the  progressive  subor- 
dination of  the  brute  power  of  force  to  the 
spiritual  power  of  justice  and  love. 

While  these  distressing  problems  were 
filling  his  mind,  and  while,  in  protest  against 
happenings  so  utterly  contrary  to  his  ideas, 
he  would  thump  his  fist  upon  his  famous  little 
table,  a  woman  was  moving  gently  to  and 
fro,  playing  the  parts,  alternately,  with  the 
same  calm  countenance,  of  Martha  and  of 
Mary;  and  when  he  asked  her  her  secret,  she 
showed  him  her  crucifix  and  read  the  Gospel 
to  him,  as  though  to  wring  from  his  heart  the 
cry  that  was  uttered  by  the  poet  of  La  Bonne 
Souff ranee : 1 

"  Vingt  siecles  de  bonte  sont  sortis  de  ces  mysteres, 
Je  crois  en  toi,  Jesus  .  .  ." 

In  moments  of  affliction,  Fabre  is  even 
closer  to  the  Truth  than  on  the  heights  of 
knowledge  and  fame.  For  we  are  never 

1  Franchise  Coppee. 

385 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

nearer  the  God  of  the  Gospel  than  when  we 
most  feel  the  want  of  Him. 

IV 

More  than  ninety  years  of  life  and  almost 
as  many  of  labour,  nearly  five  years  of  over- 
whelming fame,  and  almost  as  many  of  un- 
speakable suffering:  must  not  a  man  be 
"  built  of  heart  of  oak,"  as  they  say  in 
Aveyron,  to  survive  so  many  trials? 

Like  the  oaks  of  his  native  parts,  the  pa- 
triarch of  Serignan  continued  to  brave  the 
assaults  of  time,  and  even  when  he  began  to 
feel  that  his  life  was  declining,  it  seemed  as 
though  it  was  only  withdrawing  itself  from 
its  long  and  manifold  ramifications  in  the 
external  world  to  take  refuge,  as  in  an  inex- 
pugnable asylum,  in  the  depths  and  roots  of 
his  being.  He  was  one  of  those  of  whom 
people  say  with  us  that  they  "  cannot  die." 

Fabre's  work  is  immortal — that  is  agreed. 
But  the  artisan? 

Let  us  resume  our  comparison.  Like  the 
oak  that  loses  its  boughs,  one  after  the  other, 
he  saw  falling  one  by  one  the  several  factors 
of  his  life.  His  life  was  the  harmas,  that 
paradise  of  insects,  that  laboratory  after  his 
own  heart,  where  he  could  make  his  observa- 
tions under  the  blue  sky,  to  the  song  of  the 
386 


The  Last  Heights 

Cicadas,  amid  the  thyme,  lavender,  and  rose- 
mary. Now  he  was  seen  there  no  longer; 
hardly  were  the  traces  of  his  footsteps  yet 
visible  through  the  untrimmed  boughs  that 
crossed  the  paths  and  the  grass  that  was 
invading  them. 

His  life:  it  was  his  study,  his  museum  of 
natural  history,  his  laboratory,  where,  with 
closed  doors,  face  to  face  with  Nature,  he 
repeated,  in  order  to  perfect  them,  to  con- 
sign them  to  writing,  his  open-air  researches, 
his  observations  of  the  to-day  or  yesterday. 
Now  he  no  longer  sets  foot  in  it,  and  now 
one  saw — with  what  respect  and  tenderness 
i — only  the  marks  left  by  his  footsteps  upon 
the  tiled  floor,  as  he  came  and  went  about  the 
big  observation-table,  which  occupies  all  the 
middle  of  the  room,  in  pursuit  of  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problems  propounded  by  his 
insects. 

And  we  have  a  feeling  that  we  are  look- 
ing upon,  and  handling,  relics,  when  on  this 
table  we  still  see  the  pocket-lenses,  the  micro- 
scopes and  modest  apparatus  which  has 
served  for  his  experiments.  And  we  have 
the  same  feeling  before  the  collections  in  the 
glass-topped  cases  of  polished  pine  which 
stand  against  the  whitewashed  walls,  and 
before  the  hundred  and  twenty  volumes  of 
387 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

the  magnificent  herbarium  which  stand  in  a 
row  beneath  them,  and  before  the  innumer- 
able portfolios  of  mycological  plates,  in 
which  vivid  colour  is  blended  so  well  with 
delicacy  of  drawing,  and  before  the  registers 
and  stacks  of  notes  in  ifine,  clear  handwriting, 
without  erasures,  which  promised  a  fresh 
series  of  Souvenirs. 

Must  they  be  left  thus  abandoned  previous 
to  their  being  dispersed  or  falling  into  other 
hands — all  these  precious  fragments  of  an 
incomparable  life,  and  these  venerable 
premises,  consecrated  by  such  rare  memo- 
ries? 

The  great  naturalist's  disciples  could  not 
resign  themselves  to  the  thought,  and  by  a 
touching  inspiration  of  filial  piety  they  have 
found  the  means  to  secure  these  treasures,  as 
by  a  love  stronger  than  death,  against  this 
harrowing  dispersal. 

To  keep  the  dead  in  their  last  dwelling,  or 
attract  them  thither,  the  ancient  Egyptians 
used  to  place  there  the  image  of  their  earthly 
dwelling,  offering  them  at  least  a  reduced 
facsimile  of  their  life's  environment,  of  the 
objects  and  premises  which  had  in  some 
sort  made  part  of  their  life  and  their  soul. 

Fabre's  friends  sought  to  do  still  better. 
In  order  to  preserve  it  in  its  integrity,  they 
388 


The  Last  Heights 

determined  to  acquire  the  Harmas,  with  its 
plantations,  its  collections,  and  all  its  de- 
pendencies, and  in  order  to  make  their 
homage  as  complete  as  possible  they  made, 
with  this  object,  an  appeal  for  international 
subscriptions,  which  were  unhappily  inter- 
rupted by  the  war. 

u  This  is  the  museum  which  we  wish  to 
dedicate  to  him,"  said  the  chief  promoter  of 
this  pious  undertaking,1  "  so  that  in  after 
years,  when  the  good  sage  who  knew  the 
language  of  the  innumerable  little  creatures 
of  the  country-side  shall  rest  beneath  the 
cypresses  of  his  harmas,  at  the  foot  of  the 
laurestinus  bushes,  amidst  the  thyme  and  the 
sage  that  the  bees  will  still  rifle,  all  those 
whom  he  has  taught,  all  those  whom  he  has 
charmed,  may  feel  that  something  of  his  soul 
still  wanders  in  his  garden  and  animates  his 
house." 

However,  the  soul  of  the  "  good  sage  " 
which  they  thus  sought  to  capture  and  hold 
here  on  earth — in  short,  to  imprison  in  his 
work  and  its  environment — made  its  escape 
and  took  flight  toward  loftier  regions  and 
wider  horizons. 

To  see  him  in  the  twilight  of  the  dining- 

1  Dr.  Legros,  Les  Annales  politiques  et  litteraires,  April 
12,  1914. 

389 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

room  where  he  silently  finished  his  life,  ma- 
jestically leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair,  with 
his  best  shirt  and  old-fashioned  necktie,  his 
eyes  still  bright  in  his  emaciated  face,  his 
lips  fine  and  still  mobile,  but  thin  with  age 
and  at  moments  trembling  with  emotion,  or 
moved  by  a  sudden  inspiration — to  see  him 
thus,  would  you  not  say  that  he  was  still 
observing?  Yes,  but  his  observations  are 
now  of  an  invisible  world,  a  world  even 
richer  in  mysteries  and  revelations  than  the 
world  below,  so  patiently  explored  for  more 
than  fifty  years. 

One  day,  when  two  professors  of 
the  Grand-Seminaire  de  Saint-Paul-Trois- 
Chateaux  *  had  come  to  see  him,  as  the  time 
drew  near  to  bid  them  good-bye,  the  old  man 
held  out  his  hands  and  tucked  them  under 
their  arms,  and,  not  without  difficulty,  rose 
from  his  arm-chair,  and  arm-in-arm  with 
them  advanced,  tile  by  tile,  to  the  threshold 
of  the  house,  whither  he  had  determined  to 
accompany  them.  Suddenly,  pressing  their 
arms  more  closely  and  alluding  to  their  cas- 
socks and  their  vocation,  he  said,  energeti- 
cally: "You  have  chosen  the  better  part"; 
and,  holding  them  back  for  a  last  word,  he 

iThe  Abbe  Joseph  Betton  and  his  friend,  the  Abbe 
Juiot. 

390 


The  Last  Heights 

added:  "Life  is  a  horrible  phantasmagoria. 
But  it  leads  us  to  a  better  future." 

This  future  the  naturalist  liked  to  con- 
ceive in  accordance  with  the  images  familiar 
to  his  mind,  as  being  a  more  complete  under- 
standing of  the  great  book  of  which  he  had 
deciphered  only  a  few  words,  as  a  more 
perfect  communion  with  the  offices  of  nature, 
in  the  incense  of  the  perfumes  "  that  are 
softly  exhaled  by  the  carven  flowers  from 
their  golden  censers,"  amid  the  delightful 
symphonies  in  which  are  mingled  the  voices 
of  crickets  and  Cicadae,  chaffinches  and  sis- 
kins, skylarks  and  goldfinches,  "  those  tiny 
choristers,"  all  singing  and  fluttering,  "  trill- 
ing their  motets  to  the  glory  of  Him  who 
gave  them  voice  and  wings  on  the  fifth  day 
of  Genesis."  x 

This  last  passage  might  be  underlined,  for 
now  more  than  ever,  in  our  thoughts  of  this 
scientist,  of  whom  it  has  been  said  that  "  with 
a  taste  for  Nature  he  has  given  us  an  ap- 
preciation of  God,"  the  work  cannot  be 
divorced  from  the  artisan  without  the 
grossest  inconsistency. 

One  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  become 
intimate  with  Fabre  during  the  last  days 
of  his  life  tells  how  eagerly  the  naturalist 

i  J.  H.  Fabre,  cited  by  Dr.  Legros. 
391 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

used  to  accept  the  wild  flowers  which  he 
brought  in  from  his  walks,  how  tenderly  he 
would  caress  them  with  his  frail  fingers  and 
brilliant  eyes.  Both  looks  and  gestures  ex- 
pressed an  infinite  admiration  for  the  pure 
and  simple  work  of  Nature  as  God  has  or- 
dained it: 

"  And  when  one  evening,"  says  his  friend, 
"  I  remarked  that  these  little  miracles 
clearly  proved  the  existence  of  a  divine 
Artificer:  *  For  me,  I  do  not  believe  in  God,' 
declared  the  scientist,  repeating  for  the  last 
time  his  famous  and  paradoxical  profession 
of  faith :  '  I  do  not  believe  in  God,  because 
I  see  Him  in  all  things  and  everywhere.'  " 

Another  day  he  expressed  his  firm  and 
profound  conviction  to  the  same  friend,  in 
a  slightly  different  form.  "  God  is  Light !  " 
he  said  dreamily. — "  And  you  always  see 
Him  shining?"  "No,"  he  said  suddenly, 
"God  does  not  shine;  He  obtrudes  Him- 
self." 

The  man  who  thus  bows  before  God  has 
truly  attained,  on  the  heights  of  human 
knowledge,  what  we  may  call  with  him  the 
threshold  of  eternal  life.  To  him  God  sends 
His  angels  to  open  the  gates,  that  he  may 
enter  by  the  straight  paths  of  the  Gospel 
and  the  Church. 

392 


The  Last  Heights 

After  the  death  of  Mme.  Fabre  in  1912,  a 
nursing  Sister  of  the  Congregation  of  Saint- 
Roch  de  Viviers  was  installed  at  the 
Harmas;  her  name  was  Sister  Adrienne. 

The  old  man  appreciated  her  services  so 
greatly  that  he  was  overcome  with  dejection 
by  the  very  thought  that  she  might  be  re- 
called by  her  superiors,  according  to  the  rule 
of  her  Order,  after  the  lapse  of  a  certain 
period  of  time.  And  he  would  gratefully 
press  her  hand  when  the  good  Sister  sought 
to  relieve  his  anxiety  and  inspire  him  with 
the  hope  that  she  would  be  allowed  to  re- 
main in  his  service  till  the  end  of  his  days. 

He  found  her  simplicity,  her  delicacy,  her 
good  nature,  and  her  devotion  so  delightful 
that  he  could  not  refrain  from  telling  her  so 
plainly  in  the  direct,  forcible  manner  familiar 
to  him:  "  You  are  invaluable,  Sister;  you  are 
admirable.  I  love  religion  as  you  practise 
it." 

"  He  has  often  told  me,"  she  writes, 
"  that  when  he  could  not  sleep  at  night,  he 
used  to  pray,  to  think  of  God,  and  address  to 
Him  a  prayer  which  he  would  himself  com- 
pose." 

In  the  spring  of  1914  the  aged  naturalist, 
who  was  more  than  ninety  years  of  age,  felt 
that  his  strength  was  failing  more  per- 
393 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

ceptibly,  so  that  the  doctors  diagnosed  a  fatal 
outcome  in  the  near  future. 

On  receiving  the  news  of  this  alarming 
condition,  Monseigneur  the  Archbishop  of 
Avignon  hastened  to  the  Harmas.  The  in- 
valid expressed  his  delight  and  gratitude  for 
the  visit.  Their  relations  were  so  cordial 
that  the  prelate  decided  to  continue  them  by 
a  series  of  admirable  letters  which  have  for- 
tunately been  published. 

In  these  letters,  with  great  delicacy,  Mon- 
seigneur Latty  avoided  all  that  might  run 
contrary  to  the  naturalist's  opinions,  and  very 
gently  endeavoured  to  induce  him  to  die  as 
a  Christian. 

To  draw  him  more  surely  to  the  light  that 
shines  from  the  Cross  and  the  grace  which 
raises  the  soul  above  itself,  he  asks  him  to 
recite  every  evening,  in  unison  with  him,  the 
beautiful  prayer  of  the  dying  Saviour,  which 
he  calls  "  the  prayer  of  the  heights,"  the 
height  of  Golgotha,  the  height  of  life:  In 
manus  tuus  Domine  commendo  spiritum 
meum.  (Into  Thy  hands,  O  Lord,  I  com- 
mend my  spirit.) 

However,  Fabre  was  not  yet  at  the  end  of 

his  Calvary.     Contrary  to  the  expectation  of 

the  doctors,  a  return  of  strength  enabled  him 

to  live  to  see  another  Spring,  and  it  needed 

394 


The  Last  Heights 

nothing  less  than  the  terrible  shocks  of  the 
tempest  unloosed  upon  Europe  to  overcome 
the  powers  of  resistance  that  had  braved  so 
many  storms. 

During  the  summer  of  1915  his  weakness 
grew  more  marked,  so  that  there  was  no 
hope  of  many  more  days  of  life.  The  cure 
of  Serignan  having  been  mobilised,  the  ab- 
sence of  the  priest  at  this  time  was  a  cause 
of  great  anxiety  to  Sister  Adrienne — always 
on  the  watch  for  the  soul  ready  to  escape 
her. 

Providence  happily  came  to  her  assistance; 
and  a  Breton  priest,  who  had  come  to  the 
South  to  recover  his  health,  and  had  for  some 
time  been  acquainted  with  the  master,  was 
admitted  to  terms  of  intimacy.  After  some 
hesitation  he  decided  to  speak  to  the  scientist 
of  the  Sacrament  of  Penitence.  With  that 
beautiful  simplicity  of  his,  and  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  priest,  Fabre,  who 
seemed  expecting  the  invitation,  replied: 

"  Whenever  you  will." 

"  Purified  by  absolution,  fortified  by  the 
Extreme  Unction,  received,  in  full  conscious- 
ness, into  the  Church,  Fabre  displayed  a  won- 
derful serenity.  Pressing  the  hand  of  the 
priest  who  was  officiating,  he  listened  to  the 
recommendation  of  the  soul.  And  when  he 
395 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

heard  the  sacred  words  that  were  familiar 
to  him — In  mantis  tuust  Domine — his  lips 
moved  as  though  to  pronounce  the  Amen  of 
supreme  acceptance,  while  his  gaze,  which 
was  beginning  to  grow  dim,  settled  upon  the 
Sister's  crucifix." 

It  was  the  nth  October  1915,  at  six 
o'clock  of  the  evening,  that  the  great  scientist 
so  gently  surrendered  his  soul  to  God. 

The  obsequies,  celebrated  on  the  i6th 
October,  "  were  simple  and  affecting,  as  he 
would  have  liked  them  to  be.  For  a  few 
moments  before  leaving  the  church,  the 
old  naturalist's  fine  face  was  again  exposed. 
It  reflected  an  immense  serenity.  On  his 
peaceful  features  one  divined  the  satisfaction 
of  the  man  who  is  departing  with  his  work 
accomplished.  In  his  parchment-like  hands 
he  clasped  a  wooden  crucifix  with  ivory  tips. 
Beside  his  head  was  a  wreath  of  laurestinus. 
Beside  one  arm  was  his  great  black  felt  hat." 

The  service  was  celebrated  by  the  Arch- 
priest  of  Orange,  in  the  little  church;  and 
then  the  harsh,  rocky  soil  received  the  body 
of  him  who  had  so  often  stooped  over  it. 

This  "  life  of  J.  H.  Fabre  told  by  him- 
self "  would  not  be  complete  if  we  did  not 
give  here  the  text  of  the  epitaph  which  he 
himself  had  composed  beforehand.  It  is 
396 


The  Last  Heights 

magnificent:  it  gives  one  the  impression  of  an 
unfurling  of  wings : 

"  Quos  periisse  putamus 

Przemissi  sunt. 
Minima  finis,  sed  limen 
Vitze  excelsioris." 

Fabre  was  preceded  to  the  tomb  by  several 
months  by  Mistral,  who  was  seven  years  his 
junior.  "  Very  different  in  an  equal  fame, 
these  two  men  are  inseparable.  Mistral  and 
Fabre  both  represented  Provence;  one  was 
born  there  and  never  left  it,  and  to  some 
extent  created  it;  the  other  adopted  and  was 
adopted  by  it,  and,  like  his  illustrious  com- 
patriot, covered  it  with  glory."  x 

But  while  Fabre  represented  Provence, 
which  saw  the  unfolding  of  his  rich  and  vital 
nature,  and  while  it  lavished  upon  him  all 
the  beauty  of  its  sky,  all  the  brilliance  of  its 
Latin  soul,  all  the  savour  of  its  musical  and 
picturesque  language,  and  all  the  entomo- 
logical wealth  of  its  sunny  hills,  he  none  the 
less  represents  the  Rouergue,  whence  he  de- 
rived his  innate  qualities  and  his  earliest 
habits,  his  love  of  nature  and  the  insects,  his 

1 E.  Laguet,  Annales  politiques  et  litteraires,  April  t. 
1914. 

397 


The  Life  of  Jean  Henri  Fabre 

thirst  for  God  and  the  Beyond,  his  indefatig- 
able love  of  work,  his  tenacious  enthusiasm 
for  study,  his  irresistible  craving  for  soli- 
tude, the  strange,  powerful,  striking  and  pic- 
turesque grace  of  his  language,  his  almost 
rustic  simplicity,  his  blunt  frankness,  his 
proud  timidity,  his  no  less  proud  inde- 
pendence, and  with  all  these  the  ingenuous 
and  unusual  sensitiveness  and  sincere  modesty 
of  his  character. 


THE  END 


398 


